


Scoring on the Empty Net

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Tripping Over the Blue Line [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Another round of one-shots (or, occasionally, two-shots) from the Tripping Over the Blue Line Universe. Set before, during and after the original story. Lots of flirting, lots of kissing, lots of on-ice checks.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: Tripping Over the Blue Line [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/905082
Comments: 30
Kudos: 65





	1. Setting Up the Go-Ahead

He didn’t knock. 

He didn’t take another step. 

Emma wasn’t entirely sure Henry was breathing, really. 

He just stood there— frozen on the edge of Emma’s vision, while she did her best not to show her growing impatience and curiosity. But the numbers in front of her were also starting to blur, and she’d very quickly been running out of space on her office floor in the last few days and—

“Oh my God, Henry, what are you doing here?” Merida cried, stumbling back because there was a recently-turned thirteen-year-old standing in the open doorway to Emma’s office. Still just as silent as ever. 

“Boss, are you laughing at this?”  
  
Emma shrugged, finally pulling her eyes away from paperwork about signed merchandise and it was only a few weeks into the season, but they were already planning for a Garden of Dreams night and there was a game on Friday night and she really could not see much of her office carpet anymore. 

“Well, he was just lurking out there,” Emma said, fully expecting the dots of color that were already starting to linger on Henry’s cheeks. He ducked his head, suddenly very interested in his sneakers and she couldn’t imagine Regina was all that pleased with the length of his hair. 

As was her now official-mother right. 

Because Henry was now Henry Mills-Locksley with parents and a house downtown and more paperwork to prove it than Emma could have ever imagined, even when she’d let herself imagine something like that for herself. Mary Margaret had been helping Ariel and Aurora plan the inevitable party for the last two days. 

While Emma had been drowning in team-branded merchandise and how, exactly, to staff all the phones for Garden of Dreams night. 

“That is true,” Merida agreed. “He was kind of lurking out here.”

She slung her arm around Henry’s slumped shoulders, pulling him against her side with a soft huff because a recently-turned thirteen-year-old, it seemed, was prone to uncontrollable limbs and, if Emma was right, pre-party nerves. 

“I wasn’t trying to lurk,” Henry mumbled. “Just—you know, I didn’t want to interrupt.”  
  
Emma’s lips twitched. “So you figured you’d just give Merida a heart attack?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon. She’s fine.”  
  
“Stout-hearted Merida.”  
  
“That makes it sound like I’m getting ready to go into battle,” Merida grumbled. “Or fight a bear or something.”  
  
“Is stout-hearted not a compliment?” Emma asked, leaning against the side of her desk and the few inches of open space. She crooked a finger towards Henry, lifting her eyebrows when he didn’t move immediately, but then he was flopping next to her and she kind of regretted the whole thing. 

If only because his elbows appeared to be made of lead. 

“No,” Merida answered, “It’s—”  
  
“—A little epic,” Henry said. “Right? Like, I’d feel good if someone stout-hearted was going to defend me from—”  
  
“—That bear?” Emma suggested. Henry’s head dropped again, in almost perfect time with his shoulders, but it was definitely because of the laugh he was trying to hide and Merida didn’t look all that impressed. 

She moved the stack of papers in her hand. To her hip. Emma assumed that made it easier to glare at the pair of them. 

“We figure out who’s going to answer the phones yet on Friday?” Emma asked. 

Merida sighed, an entire head roll coming with it. “It’s a definite work in progress. Mostly because Aurora’s been so busy with—” She cut herself off when Henry tensed, shoulders going impossibly straight for a kid who’d been smiling an almost record amount since he’d gotten back from Family Court. 

Emma narrowed her eyes. 

Merida was going to drop the stack of papers if she kept moving them at their current rate. 

“Why were you here, Henry?” Emma asked, nudging him with her elbow. But it wasn’t made of lead, and thirteen-year-olds were notoriously stubborn and she was fairly positive Mary Margaret was going to buy out a balloon wholesaler before this whole thing was finished. 

Nothing. 

More silence.  
  
More ridiculous shoulder movement. 

“I’ll get Ariel up here, she’ll make you do some ridiculous routine so you don’t overwork the muscles up there” Emma threatened, but the words lost something when Merida snickered. “You’re not really helping.”  
  
Merida hummed. “That’s because I’m getting ready to tame some bears or whatever stout-hearted people do and—” She took a step, tip-toeing around piles of jerseys and boxes of pucks, nearly toppling a small mountain of hockey sticks. “I would bet everyone in this entire franchise several million dollars, that our dear teenager—”  
  
“—Aw, that’s really not funny,” Henry mumbled. 

Merida ignored him, taping two fingers on the side of his still-red cheeks. “Is a little nervous about being the guest of honor at Friday’s post-game thing. And does not want to...what should we call it? Jinx it? There’s paperwork, Henry. Nothing’s going to happen. Robin and Regina wouldn’t let anything happen.”  
  
“I know,” Henry said, barely above a whisper and something in the back of Emma’s brain startled at that. 

She glanced at Merida. Who was not very good at shrugging covertly.  
  
“Saw that,” Henry muttered. “And—it’s not really that. Like, at all. I...I know Robin and Regina aren’t going to back out and obviously I’m stupid happy about that. I mean, I’ve got a house and a room to myself and they’re already talking about a vacation? An actual vacation, maybe something during the All-Star break, which is just...nuts.”

“Did you just say stupid happy?” Merida laughed. “And nuts? Is that how the teens are speaking these days?”

Henry made a face.  
  
“I think that means you’re not hip, Mer,” Emma laughed. 

“Is not hip the right terminology here?” Merida asked.   
  
“No,” Henry answered. “And neither one of you are very good at this. Listen, I’m not worried about the party or, like, I don’t know the rest of my life or whatever. But…”  
  
“But,” Emma echoed. 

She waited for the answer, or the rest of the sentence, curiosity growing even more than her impatience, because Emma suddenly had a very good guess as to what was going to come next. Only there were footsteps approaching her somehow still-open door.  
  
“Seriously, why don’t we ever close that thing?” she asked Merida, getting another less-than-enthusiastic shrug. 

Henry chuckled. 

“You’re not good at secrets either,” Emma chided, as Phillip leaned around the door frame, his own hair a disheveled mess. He was wearing socks with his sandals. 

“Hey,” he said, sounding more than a little out of breath. “Henry, I thought we were going to meet downstairs.”  
  
Emma’s narrow eyes widened quickly enough that they nearly started to water, not sure where she wanted to look or who she was going to glare at intimidatingly. Phillip grinned. “Oh hey, Em,” he continued. “You know Cap’s looking for you. Something about coffee or tea or dark corners or something.”  
  
That made it easier for her to decide who to glare at. 

“What do you want, Rook?”

“Henry. Was that not obvious?”  
  
“Anyone ever tell you that you have exceptionally pale legs? When’s the last time you saw any kind of sunshine?”  
  
“I’ve been a little busy,” Phillip reasoned, stepping into the office and immediately laughing. “At some point, you’re going to have to come up with a better organizational schedule. Someone’s going to break something in here.”  
  
“Schedule is not the right word either,” Merida muttered. 

Phillip made a dismissive noise, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his shorts and rocking back on his heels. He glanced at Henry, wide eyes and impossibly high eyebrows and Emma was going to blame that last part on Killian. 

Wherever he was. 

“You know kid," Phillip drawled, “I”m going to be a little offended if you were asking for outside help. Here I thought we were a two-man scheme.”  
  
Henry squeezed one eye shut. 

“What the hell is going on?” Emma asked sharply. “And where is Killian?”  
  
“Probably lurking in that dark corner waiting for you,” Phillip muttered. Merida kicked his ankles. “Hey, hey, I just got off the ice!”  
  
“Killian’s probably with Ariel then,” Henry said. “Which makes what you were saying before even less intimidating, Emma.”  
  
Merida was still kicking Phillip — Emma only a little worried about the state of the paperwork, but then he moved an arm around her assistant’s middle and the whole thing was so absolutely and completely absurd that she couldn’t be anything except almost entertained. She let her head fall onto Henry’s shoulder. 

He smiled. 

“What’s your super top secret plan, kid?” Emma pressed. 

Henry still didn’t answer immediately, eyes flitting up towards Phillip — “How’d you know I was up here?” he asked. 

Phillip grunted when Merida stepped on his foot, but there was something just on the edge of his expression that Emma couldn’t quite name. It left her stomach flipping a little in anticipation, a nervous energy that was equal parts hope and happiness and she kind of wanted her boyfriend to be waiting in a dark corner somewhere. 

Preferably with hot chocolate. 

He’d totally know to get her hot chocolate. 

She just had to help their resident teenager first. 

And his teenage-like partner, apparently. 

“It’s one building,” Phillip said. “There were only so many places you could go. Plus, you know, even if I think it sucks you want to expand our squad, it seemed pretty inevitable you’d go to Emma for help.”  
  
“Help?” Emma asked. “Help with what, exactly?”  
  
Phillip stared at Henry. And his exceptionally scrunched nose. 

“If you’re not nervous about family life,” Merida started, “then what’s going on with you? Nothing bad, right?”  
  
“No, no, no.” Henry shook his head. “What could be bad?”  
  
Emma kissed the top of his head. He huffed. “Stand down stout-hearted defender,” she suggested, Merida clicking her tongue in frustration.

“I feel like I’ve missed all the high points of this conversation,” Phillip sighed. “And the kid’s not going to give you a straight answer. He’s spent way too much time with Lucas.”  
  
“Oh, I’m going to tell her you said that,” Emma cried.  
  
“He wants to get something for Locksley and Gina. Like—a decade-plus worth’s of backlogged mother and father’s day presents. He’s been saving money.”  
  
Emma’s jaw dropped. 

And, really, that was kind of a lame reaction, but her heart also felt like it was growing and her stomach was doing that flipping and flopping thing again and Merida had stopped trying to check Phillip with that stack of paperwork. So, maybe it was an entirely appropriate reaction. 

“Stupid happy,” Merida murmured. 

Emma tried not to sniffle.  
  
“Heard that,” Henry said, the smile obvious even when her neck was still bent at a wholly uncomfortable angle. “And it’s not really wrong. So, uh—I mean, it was an idea, I guess. Just since it all started, and Robin and Gina have done so much for me and—”  
  
“—They’re not looking for payment in kind, kid,” Emma interrupted. 

“That’s not what this is.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No. It’s—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s...a sign or something. Like laces and rings and—’  
  
“—This is a good tactical approach, Henry,” Phillip said. “Using Em’s own emotional heirlooms against her.”  
  
“We’ve really got to learn how words work,” Merida complained. “Rook, did you go to college?”

“Mer, please don’t act like you aren’t painfully aware of the backstory of every single person on this team. It’s almost more insulting than Henry trying to expand the squad without asking me about it first.”  
  
“We never agreed to call it a squad,” Henry argued.

Emma was starting to choke on her own laughter. Which wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it probably should have been. She rested her chin on Henry’s shoulder instead. “Points to me, Rook,” she said. “And while we’re all—what did you call it, painfully aware of your vaunted career at the University of North Dakota and your early elimination from the NCAA Tournament, I’m still not getting a straight-forward answer on several things.”  
  
“You want to list your questions?” Phillip quipped.  
  
“Yes, obviously I want to list them. One, North Dakota is a dumb state. Two, I cannot imagine why Henry asked you to be on this squad. Three—”  
  
“—Can we please stop calling it a squad,” Henry groaned. 

“Three,” Emma repeated, “If Henry is here, then that means he needs some help coming up with something to get Robin and Regina and I’d like to know if we’re buying two separate things or one lump gift and if there’s wrapping involved because I’m really bad at wrapping gifts.”

Phillip beamed. “Don’t insult North Dakota like that again.”

“10-4, Rook.” He rolled his eyes. “So, what’s our biggest obstacle, then?”  
  
Emma grunted when Henry jumped up, the muscles in her neck not all that pleased to be suddenly forced back into service. “You’re going to help?” Henry asked sharply, both Phillip and Merida doing a God awful job of not laughing. 

Emma bit the side of her tongue. 

“You came up here, kid,” she said. “And on a scale of one to most insulting, you thinking you’d even have to ask is like a billion.”

He exhaled — loud and a little nervous, possibly a bit overwhelmed, which was a feeling Emma understood only too well. No family and then almost too much family, memories of another meeting in that office just a few months earlier, the floor covered in merchandise and a kid who was worried about getting it all. As if he deserved anything less. As if his parents did. She tugged on her laces before she could stop herself. 

Phillip practically cackled. 

“Alright,” he said, “so should we start brainstorming, or how does this work, exactly?”

Merida stepped on his toes one more time. “Let me get some paper.”

One sheet of paper, it turned out was not enough. Merida had to get back up more than once, combing through the mess that was Emma’s desk to find a handful of pens and more notebooks, handing them out to the lot of them, sprawled out in the bits of spaces on her floor. 

Phillip had laid down at some point, one leg bent and the other crossed over his knee, head lolling back and forth while he hummed under his breath. Henry was flat on his stomach, left foot tapping out to the same rhythm Phillip was barely following, while Emma and Merida sat back-to-back, alternating between coming up with _thanks for adopting me_ gift ideas and trying to name every person who worked at Madison Square Garden and could be coerced into answering a phone on Friday night. 

“Nah, not him,” Merida objected. “He’d yell at someone if they didn’t donate enough.”  
  
Emma clicked her tongue. “Is that a good or bad thing?”  
  
“Bad,” both Phillip and Henry answered before Henry added, “what do you think about...dinner somewhere?”  
  
“If you want to face A’s wrath after,” Merida mumbled. 

“And we don’t really have time during the season, kid,” Phillip added. “It’s got to be a thing, not necessarily an experience. Although the invitation for you and Rol to hang out at our apartment for the night is open.”  
  
“Yeah, nothing says family, like separating the family,” Emma said. 

“Come up with something better then.”

“I don’t know—I...what about making something?”  
  
“You want Henry to make something? Like what?”  
  
“Something,” Emma repeated. “Thoughtful. Arty.”  
  
“I’m going to call Mary Margret,” Merida announced. “At least then there’d be something coherent about these conversations.”

“As if you’re not keeping up,” Phillip chided. 

“And I don’t know if I can do art stuff,” Henry admitted. “What would I even make? I’m not five. I’m not going to draw things.”  
  
“Five’s the cut-off, then?”  
  
Henry rolled...his whole body.

“And what exactly were you bringing to the squad, Rook?” Emma asked, as much sarcasm as she could fit into the words. “How long have you two been planning all of this?”  
  
Phillip propped himself up on his elbows, the sandal on his left foot barely holding on. She’d taken off her shoes as soon as she’d sat on the ground. “I’m an excellent present-buyer,” he said, with enough pride that Emma couldn’t even really fault him for it. “Ask Rose, she’ll—what? What’s with the face?”  
  
“I’m sorry, do you call your fiancée Rose?”  
  
“God, that’s gross,” Merida muttered. Henry moved his hand over his mouth. 

Maybe they were just taking turns blushing. Phillip was as red as Merida’s hair, eyes moving anywhere except the gaze Emma left boring into the side of his head, and whatever noise bubbled out of her was so goddamn happy she still couldn’t quite come to terms with it. 

She was going to help Mary Margaret buy out that balloon wholesaler. 

“I don’t want to hear it, Em,” Phillip warned. “You and Cap are constantly disgusting and Rose and I have been together way longer—”  
  
“—Is it a competition?”  
  
“Everything on this team is a competition,” Henry shrugged, and well, that was fair. 

Phillip’s eyes were very wide. “All I’m saying is that I’ve known her forever and in the grand scheme of grand romances in this whole thing, we’re definitely in contention for top three. We’re at least beating Scarlet and Belle, for sure.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“Um, did you not hear my romantic nickname for my fiancée? Scarlet needed to break his leg to call Belle his girlfriend and they’d been dating forever.”  
  
“He’s got a point, boss,” Merida said. 

Emma hummed. “And who’s on the top of your list, huh?”  
  
“Worried about your title, Em?” Phillip asked knowingly. 

“Oh shut up.”  
  
“I don’t know. I think Locksley and Gina are gunning for that top spot. They’ve got the family and the cute kids and—” Henry gagged. “Listen, Henry, you’re cute, get with it. And now you’ve got parents who are also pretty into each other and, they may not have dark corners to make out in, but I think that slow and steady romance has its own advantages.”  
  
“Speaking from experience?” Emma added. “And you’re way too confident in your own humor now, Rook. I think you’ve been spending too much time with Scarlet.”

“Something like that. On both fronts.”

She was starting to get used to the way her cheeks ached from smiling so much. 

“None of this is helping,” Henry yelled. “It’s—it’s all gross and—”

He made another noise, flailing limbs and teenage-type angst and Emma tugged her lips behind her teeth before she looked back at Philipp, still a little flush with a pen stuck behind his ear. “That may be something you have to get used to,” he said. “And I stand by my original claim that we should get jewelry of some sort. It’s an easy gift, covers both our giftees, and is easy to wrap because of the boxes, plus Rose loves when I buy it.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Merida muttered, “I really just can't get over Rose. How did that start? Was it Shakespearean? By any other name or something like that?”  
  
“He went to UND, Mer,” Emma pointed out, fully expecting the look she got. “You can’t expect that kind of depth to a nickname.” Phillip did his best to flip her off, but Henry was still there and he had to settle for tossing his pen in Emma’s direction. It felt six inches away from her hand. “Didn’t really hit your mark, did you?”  
  
“Passing isn’t my thing,” Phillip grumbled. 

“Yuh huh. You’re still avoiding the answer.”

“If it’s an actual flower pun, I might scream,” Merida guaranteed. 

Phillip grimaced. “It’s not. Kind of. Just it’s—her mom was big on flowers when she was growing up and she used to prick her finger a lot and—”

Emma almost threw a puck at whoever was knocking on her door, Henry burying his head in his crossed arms, even as his whole body shook with his laughter. And Killian didn’t do much more than lift his eyebrows, feet crossed at the ankles and fingers tugging on the still damp hair at the back of his neck. 

“Did I interrupt something?”  
  
“Nah, Cap,” Phillip said almost immediately. “Took you long enough to get up here.”  
  
He was holding two cups in his other hand. Emma was genuinely not sure how much more of this her heart could take. A lifetime, she was starting to hope. But that felt like getting ahead of themselves a little and, as much as she’d hate to admit it, Phillip was right — slow and steady romance had several things going for it. 

“Got impatient,” Killian said, all calm and easy and he didn’t trip or flinch when he weaved his way through the office. “Hi, love.”  
  
“Were you waiting for me?”  
  
“I did mention the impatience, right?”

“Mmhm,” Emma nodded. She reached up, the warmth of the cup working through her and into her soul and she was a great, big giant sap. Henry was standing up again. So he could bob on the balls of his feet. 

“What’s with the kid?” Killian asked, one side of his mouth tugging up when he nodded at Henry.

“We’re buying a present.”  
  
“Are we?”  
  
“Me,” Henry corrected. “I am buying a present and asked some of the adults in my life to be helpful, but—”  
  
“—Ok, we are being very helpful,” Phillip cut in. “I’ve come up with half a dozen stellar ideas and you’ve shot them all down.”  
  
“Must not be as stellar as you think then, huh, Rook?” Killian asked, peering over the top of his cup. His fingers grazed Emma’s shoulder when he walked by, perching on the same spot of desk she’d been sitting in what now felt like an eternity ago. 

“We’re stuck on jewelry, it seems,” Emma said. 

“And this is what—a thanks for adopting me gift?”  
  
“I mean, we’re not calling it that, exactly.”  
  
“That’s basically what it is, though,” Henry said. He dropped next to Killian, as casual as anything, but Emma knew it was exactly the opposite. And they didn’t really look similar — Killian’s hair darker and his shoulders broader than Henry’s, but Emma could see the glimpses of one in the other when they sat there, near-matching looks of concentration and understanding, more common ground between the three of them. 

She took another sip of hot chocolate. 

So as not to be tempted to kiss her boyfriend while he sat next to Henry. 

“And we’re buying one gift?” Killian asked. “Of the stellar variety?”  
  
“None of you are cool,” Henry mumbled. 

“See if I score for you on Friday.”  
  
“You want to score for Emma, anyway, so—whatever.”  
  
“Whatever. Good argument.”  
  
“Who’s the teenager in this instance?” Merida asked. 

Emma shook her head, already almost out of hot chocolate. “I honestly have no idea. But, yeah, combined present, or double present. Same thing for both of them. So that means it’s got to be something they both like or are both into, but—”  
  
“—Gina is proving a problem,” Phillip said begrudgingly. Killian’s eyebrows all but disappeared. “Don’t do that, Cap. Seriously, this is not helping at all and you were waiting to make out with Em and, you know, none of us can cope with that.”  
  
“Honestly,” Henry agreed. 

Killian ignored that. Or, so Emma assumed, when he didn’t say anything, just sat on the edge of her desk with his legs stretched and the tip of his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. It was distracting. 

Emma wanted to pace. 

She didn’t. She knew he was thinking something.

“Well,” she prompted, “what’s your great idea, then?”  
  
“How do you know I have an idea?” Killian challenged. 

“You’re doing that thing with your face.”  
  
“My face?”

Emma hummed. She was out of hot chocolate. “Thinking face.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“You do this thing with your face. When you start plotting. Your eyebrows get all high and your lips get really thin. It’s a habit.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re staring at my lips, Swan.”  
  
“Do we have to be here for this?” Phillip groused. 

“Honestly,” Merida sighed. “And Cap if you’re not going to volunteer ideas for the Rangers’ currently reigning supreme romantic couple or sign some of those pucks Em hasn’t asked you about, then you should probably stop blowing off Ariel.”  
  
“Red’s planning a party. She’s not worried about my thighs.”  
  
“Are you worried about your thighs?”  
  
“Oh my God, stop talking about Cap’s thighs,” Phillip shouted. 

Killian’s smirk gained power. Emma had to put her cup down. She was going to crush it in her hand. “Are we referring to Locksley and Gina as reigning supreme romantic couple now?”  
  
“There was a list,” Emma explained. 

“And where did we end up?”  
  
“Second.”  
  
“That’s really disappointing.”  
  
“Isn’t it, just?”  
  
Phillip collapsed back, Henry’s head falling forward and—“You know Locksley’s nickname in college was Arrow?” Killian asked. He nodded when Emma’s jaw did that dropping open thing again, all the air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding rushing out of her in a huff. “Oh yeah, it’s not really all that creative. But the story, as I understand it, is that he used to hit the bullseye on every pass, so—you know college kids. Kind of stopped once he got to the pros, but I know he’s told Gina about it and it always makes her laugh.”  
  
“Laugh?” Emma repeated.  
  
“I don’t even want to suggest that Gina has ever giggled in her life. She’ll teleport here and kick me in the shins.”  
  
“And when you’re already so worried about your thighs.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Emma stuck her lower lip out when she nodded, if only so Killian’s chest would shift as soon as his breath caught. “It’s a better nickname than what Rook calls Aurora.”  
  
“What does Rook call Aurora?”  
  
“Rose.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
Phillip threw another pen. Emma couldn’t begin to imagine where he was getting them from. “You're a picture of responsibility,” he sneered. “There are kids here.”  
  
“He’s been on the ice before,” Killian said. “And I think you’re just worried about your standing in this list. What do you think about arrows, Henry?”  
  
He startled at the sudden inclusion in the conversation, nearly taking out a stick in the process. Both Emma and Merida winced. Loudly. 

“Control your limbs,” Killian added, pulling Henry back to his side. “Arrows. Thoughts?”  
  
“Arrows,” Henry said. “Like more than one?”  
  
“Well, you’ve got two parents now, right?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Then yeah, plural.”

“What would we get though? Actual bows and arrows are a little—”  
  
“—Lord of the Rings,” Merida suggested. “Plus then you’ve got to worry about up-keep and a quiver and it’s a whole thing.”

Emma’s jaw was going to stay permanently dropped. 

“What?” Merida asked. “That’s normal knowledge.”  
  
“Did you pick this up before or after the bear thing?” Emma laughed. 

“Seriously, I'm disappointed I missed all the fun parts of this conversation,” Phillip muttered. “And if we’re looking for multiple presents, I continue to stand by jewelry suggestion. You get necklaces and it’s paternal and familial and decidedly emotional and everyone lives happily ever after. And, you know, I’ve got a guy.”

“You’ve got a guy,” Killian repeated slowly, careful to emphasize every word for maximum mocking potential. 

“Yeah. Ros—Aurora has a charm bracelet that I’ve been adding onto since college. In North Dakota, Em.”  
  
“Did I miss something there?”  
  
“Just mocking alma maters,” Emma said. “And I think it’s a good idea. It’s sentimental without being cheesy and we could probably get it today. What do you think, Henry?”  
  
His smile could have rivaled the sun. And every light in the New York skyline. 

Emma’s heart thudded. 

And she didn’t quite count the seconds, but she might have been holding her breath again, eyes flitting across every person in her office until they landed on Henry and his smile and the lingering color in his cheeks. 

He nodded. 

“Someone will probably have to distract Gina and Robin for a couple hours. Where, uh—where do we meet this guy?”  
  
“This is not some backroom dealing,” Phillip sighed. “He owns a jewelry store in Chelsea. This is totally legit.”  
  
“And distraction sounds like a perfect job for Scarlet,” Killian added. “You want to go now?”  
  
“What?" Henry balked. "Now?”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I don’t—I don’t know. Yeah, ok. Now’s fine.”

It didn’t take long to enlist Scarlet in running interference — his laugh almost uproarious when he heard the plan and made sure to ruffle Henry’s hair before letting the kid follow Emma and Killian into a cab. 

“Gina won’t like that,” Emma muttered, but Killian just waved her off. 

“What Gina doesn’t know will not kill her. And cabs are good for the city-soul or something.”  
  
“Or something.”

And Phillip had been right about the store, necklaces and rings and bracelets and enough shiny things that Emma found herself blinking on instinct. But there was a section of charms and chains and Killian kept his hand on Henry’s shoulder the entire time. 

Even when he was forty-two dollars short.

“Damn,” Henry mumbled, not bothering to quiet his disappointment. Emma didn’t blame him, could see the look on his face and remember the feeling that was practically wafting off him. She took a step forward on more instinct of the familial variety, resting her other hand on the only shoulder Henry had available. 

That made it difficult to reach for her wallet. 

It also gave Killian plenty of time to get his. 

“Don't worry about it,” he said as if it wasn’t something incredibly important or another moment that Emma was going to hoard in the back corners of her brain. Henry tilted his head up, eyes gone wide and a little bit glossy as he opened his mouth to argue. 

But Killian just shook his head, quick and brusque. 

“Captain-esque,” Emma whispered. Killian winked. He tried, at least. 

Henry grit his teeth, breathing as quickly as Phillip had earlier that afternoon. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Silly question,” Killian said.  
  
“I’m serious. I’m—”  
  
“—Part of this team, Henry. And if I’m captain of this team, then that means it’s my job to take care of everyone, right?”  
  
“It means you get to argue with the refs.”  
  
“Ah, well, we’ll say it’s a grey area, huh?”  
  
Emma kissed the top of Henry’s head again. She couldn’t think of anything else to do. Not when Henry kept blinking and Killian did the opposite, the lights from Phillip’s fancy jewelry store glinting off the pair of arrow charms sitting in front of them.  
  
“Yeah,” Henry said. “Ok. That’s, uh—thanks, Killian.”  
  
“How much you want to bet Gina’s going to cry when you give them to her?”  
  
“Gina doesn’t cry.”  
  
“Eh, I don’t know about that, kid. She definitely cried when she called me and Emma to tell us everything was official.”

Henry’s eyes went as wide as saucers.  
  
“Oh, she’ll never forgive you for giving that up,” Emma said. 

Killian shrugged. ‘I think she’ll have other things to worry about. I’m serious kid, what do you want to bet?”  
  
“I spent all my money,” Henry grumbled. 

“So, we’ll bet practice time. Half an hour on the ice in Tarrytown if she does? I’ll sneak you on and face the wrath of a number of authority figures.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“You gotta stop double checking.”  
  
Henry thrust his hand out — and Emma was sure she didn’t imagine the knowing look on the face of the guy behind the counter — shaking Killian’s and agreeing to terms as the register dinged loudly. 

They bought Henry wrapping paper from the Duane Read two blocks away. 

“Ten bucks says she excuses herself before bursting into tears,” Emma said, hours later, standing in their kitchen with a towel flipped over her shoulder. 

Killian arched an eyebrow, another smirk tugging at the ends of his mouth. “I’d rather bet something other than money.”  
  
“Yeah, what?”  
  
“There’s plenty of corners in that restaurant.”  
  
“You want to make out?”  
  
“Yes,” he said, simple enough that Emma couldn’t contain her laugh. Or the joy that appeared to come with it every time she realized this was actually her laugh. 

“Straight to the point, huh?”  
  
“No reason to beat around the bushes,” Killian shrugged. He crowded behind her, head dropping so he could trail kisses along the back of her neck and Emma seriously could not control whatever she was doing. Arching her back, and smiling like an idiot, reaching back to swat away his hands at the same time she tried to grab his hair. “You’re sending mixed messages, love,” Killian added, “I’ll think you don’t want to make out with me.”  
  
“In dark corners.”  
  
“Or anywhere, really. I’m not particular.”  
  
She laughed, body shaking against Killian’s when he tugged the towel off. That was probably for the best. And Emma couldn’t really keep her balance when he spun her, hands flying to his chest and chin jutted out on instinct, letting Killian catch her lips with his almost immediately. 

That made it easier to tell he was smiling too. 

Laughing, as well.

The whole _lifetime_ thing was starting to seem more and more reasonable. 

“Captain Killian Jones, a benevolent leader to his team and kids everywhere,” Emma mumbled, mostly into the side of his jaw. He was still smiling, she knew it. 

“If you can think the word benevolent at this point, we’ve got problems.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just way smarter than all of you.”  
  
“That college degree’ll do it, yeah.”

She’d stopped believing this was a dream or a fantasy months ago, but Emma still couldn’t quite control the rush of emotion that flew down either one of her legs and up her arm, circling her heart and her soul and—”I love you,” she breathed. 

“I love you too, Swan.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Not something you have to double check either. We’re totally coming for Locksley and Gina’s relationship crown though.”  
  
“Competitive weirdo.”  
  
“Yeah, but you said you loved me. So…”  
  
He didn’t bother saying anything else, hands drifting towards the hem of Emma’s shirt and the button of her jeans and she got enough people to answer the phones the next afternoon. 

And Regina Mills-Locksley burst into tears as soon as she opened the box. 

Robin kept blinking. 

In the middle of the restaurant uptown. 

Surrounded by balloons and a cheering hockey team. 

“Told you,” Killian mumbled, bumping Emma side. 

She didn’t say anything, just let herself curl against his side and she was fairly certain she heard the shutter click on Will’s phone. 

“You’ve got to put it on, Gina,” Will shouted, Belle on his leg and his chin hooked over her shoulder. “Now, now, now!”  
  
The rest of the peanut gallery started to chant as well, Phillip crying “You too, Locksley, fair’s only fair.”

They both had to try more than once — shaking hands and tear-stained cheeks, and Emma refused to be held responsible for the number of times she sniffled, particularly when Regina’s fingers ghosted over the charm as soon as it fell over her shirt, pulling Henry into a tight hug. Or, a day later when someone in the post-game scrum of a 4-2 victory over the Canadiens that included the go-ahead goal coming off Killian’s stick on a pass from Robin, asked “where’d the new jewelry come from, Locksley?”  
  
And it took a moment for him to respond, rolling his shoulders and sitting up a bit straighter. But then he grinned and looked directly at the camera in front of him. 

“My son got it for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no self control, what can I say? And @eleveneitherway on Tumblr has been sending me GORGEOUS manips from Blue Line for the last few days, so I had some inspiration. 
> 
> What can I say? The world is vaguely stressful and this 'verse is not. Will I ever post the stuff I've been hoarding for literal years or will I continue to just write new things? Who can say. Certainly not me. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	2. With the Popular Vote

“Ah, shit.”

“That’s about the sentiment, yeah,” Merida nodded, leaning against the open doorway to Emma’s office. “Ruby’s already making moves.”  
  
“I’m sorry, making moves?”   
  
Another nod — which didn’t do much to alleviate the overall absurdity of the last four minutes, but at some point Emma had also just started to expect the ridiculous and whatever sound she made wasn’t really a laugh. It was more like the general acceptance of the inevitable fight she was going to have to stave off in the locker room and she hoped Ruby at least had the wherewithal to make sure they were all separated before doing social media stuff. 

Probably not. 

“Alright,” Emma sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Merida was very clearly trying not to smile. Or laugh. Or smile while she was laughing. Which probably would have done damage to the muscles in her cheeks, honestly. 

Really the whole thing was patently and entirely absurd. 

“Is it really a real thing, though?” Emma asked. “Like this is a legitimate...honor.”  
  
Merida sounded like she was choking. 

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Emma continued, grabbing her phone off her desk only to shove it into her back pocket and she did not really have time for this. “Do fans suggest the people they vote for, though?”  
  
“You’re really worried about the logistics of this.”   
  
“I want to have all my facts straight before I guarantee to some people that it’s dumb and unimportant, while also promising other people that it’s the single most important thing they’ve ever done.”   
  
“Ever?” Merida echoed. “Like ever. The Cup runs didn’t count?”   
  
“Have you had a conversation with some of the idiots on this team?”   
  
Merida’s whole body shook when she laughed that time, stepping out of the way in just enough time to let Emma march into the hallway. Where she was pleasantly surprised to see...absolutely no one else. 

Part of her was almost certain there’d be a small protest going on outside her office, but there wasn’t anything and that was only a little disconcerting. Ruby was very efficient. 

“There’s nothing on Twitter yet, right?” Emma asked, glancing back towards Merida. Whose cheeks were almost as red as her hair. 

She shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen yet, no.”  
  
“Good, good, ok—that’s good. If Ruby is down there making this worse, though, I’m going to be super annoyed.”   
  
“You should probably call all of them idiots and get it over with.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, jamming her finger into the elevator button. “This really isn’t an entirely fan-run thing?”   
  
“No,” Merida promised. “League-sponsored, league-promoted, but fan-voted. I have no idea what qualifies a person to pick the nominations over someone else. I’m sure it’s a hard-fought battle. And, you know, maybe the league also secretly picks the winners based on who they think will drive the most site traffic, which seems...that’s totally possible.”

Emma let her head drop to the side. 

Merida didn’t blink. 

She smiled. Slowly. Mockingly. The phone in Emma’s pocket was ringing. 

“You’re making fun,” she said, “but conspiracy theory is something we can actually work with.”  
  
“He’s not going to be that mad about not being nominated.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”  
  
Merida blinked. Several times. “Wait, what?”

Emma made a noise — not entirely human nor much of an agreement and it wasn’t very comfortable when the sound appeared to scratch its way out of the back of her throat, but there wasn’t anyone else in the elevator either and she was going to take her exceptionally small victories where she could get them. 

She still tapped her foot the entire way down. 

And Merida didn’t mention it once. 

So, maybe things weren’t as bad as Emma originally assumed they were. 

Until. 

Naturally. 

The voices were loud even before they turned the corner of the hallway — otherwise empty except for the sticks propped against the wall and the rolling laundry container nearly filled to the brim with discarded practice jerseys and Kristoff’s office door was open. He was laughing.

Uproariously. 

Rapping her fingers on the frame, Emma twisted around the side to find Kristoff’s feet propped up on his desk and a phone pressed to his ear. With his shoulder. His laugh kept bubbling out of him, threatening to mess up the undeniably questionable balance that came from sitting like that and Emma didn’t need more than one guess to know who was on the other end of that call. 

“Tell her if she texts Killian about this, I won’t let her watch my kids anymore,” Emma warned. 

Kristoff’s right foot landed on the floor. “What?”  
  
“I’m serious. No surprise visits. No hanging out on my couch. Nothing. I will change the locks in our apartment.”   
  
“That’s kind of hardcore, don’t you think?”   
  
“I am incredibly hard core.”   
  
Merida’s hand soared to her mouth. Emma narrowed her eyes, waiting for Kristoff to say something, but nothing happened and she was just about to walk away, but—

“She definitely already texted him.”  
  
Emma growled. There was no other word for it, throwing her head back to glare at the ceiling because she wasn’t near her laptop anymore and glaring at Kristoff felt kind of pointless. 

He grit his teeth when she spun back around, hands on her hips and heart hammering in her chest, and she might know this was insane, but adrenaline was a weird thing and maybe she could just write them in. 

She hadn’t been able to find an option for that on the website. 

In the five minutes she’d spent looking. 

Maybe Emma would check Instagram later. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think she’s serious,” Kristoff muttered, answering Anna’s question and Emma briefly allowed herself to be proud of how well her voice carried. “No, she’s not holding a stick.”

“Yet,” Emma threatened. 

Kristoff leaned back. She was proud of that too. And it only took a few seconds for him to drop his phone into her upturned palm when she stuck her hand out. 

“Mom face,” he mumbled, Merida humming softly in agreement. 

Emma ignored both of them. “Anna,” she said instead, trying to sound official and professional and she might have gotten too confident, too quickly. All she got in response was laughter. Long, possibly unhinged laughter. “Anna, I swear—”  
  
“—How annoyed is he?”   
  
“I don’t know, I haven’t actually talked to them yet, but—”

“—Scarlet is going to have a field day with this, you know that, right?” Anna laughed. It kind of sounded like she was crying. “The jokes will be endless. He’s going to promo him and Rook for the next three weeks.”  
  
“Shit, is that how long voting lasts?”   
  
“Mmhm, didn’t you see that or were you just glaring at the options?”   
  
Emma didn’t respond. Her cheeks were very warm. It was very warm in that office. That couldn’t have been good for the ice. 

They were basically right under the ice. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Anna said knowingly, “and, for what it’s worth, both El and I have already told Liam that he has to wait at least thirty-six hours before he starts mocking KJ and Locksley. We pushed for forty-eight, but he said that was unreasonable.”  
  
“What did he want?”   
  
“Like—I don’t even know, fifteen minutes.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, a quick finger pointed towards Kristoff when he dared to start laughing again. He held his hands up. 

Presumably in surrender. 

“So,” Anna continued, “really we are helping you. Also, we’ve decided we’re not voting. In support of KJ. But I can’t do anything about Lizzie.”  
  
It had already been some kind of morning in italicized letters and maybe a few underlines for emphasis, but in the grand scheme of things Emma did not expect to contend with, her four-year-old niece was pretty low on the list. 

“What does Lizzie have to do with this?”  
  
“Rook is her favorite.”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows dropped in almost perfect tandem with her jaw. “Are you kidding me?”   
  
“Not at all. I’ll give the kid points for good taste, because Rook has definitely got some of the best hair on that team.”   
  
“No!”   
  
“We’ll you’re biased.   
  
“Are you not?” Emma challenged. “You think Phillip has the best hair on this hockey team?”   
  
Merida mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _oh my God_ under her breath. It wasn’t really under her breath. 

Kristoff’s shoulders were shaking. 

“Of course not,” Anna guaranteed. “Em, c’mon, do not tell me that you’re not obsessed with KJ’s hair. You’re always doing that running your fingers through it thing.”  
  
“We’re married!”   
  
“Yeah, which is why it’s an understandable bias, but a bias all the same. The point I’m trying to make is that Lizzie might have something of a crush on Rook and I think she’s going to sway the votes of this whole thing.”   
  
Emma shook her head. She wasn’t sure what else to say, stunned into relative silence because she was still breathing pretty quickly and her pulse was still doing that racing through her veins thing and—

“Can I talk to my boyfriend again now?” Anna asked. “Liam really won’t say anything to KJ for the required thirty-six hours, but then the mocking is fair game and you’re probably going to want Belle to pick the pictures Scarlet posts on his Instagram.”  
  
“Oh shit, I didn’t even think about that.”   
  
“Really just glaring at the computer in defense of your husband, huh?”   
  
“That’s how marriage works or whatever.”   
  
“Or whatever,” Anna echoed, and it was easy to hear the smile in her words. “Strictly speaking this is almost a good thing.”   
  
Emma made a noncommittal sound, giving Kristoff back his phone and Merida had moved her hand back to her mouth. Or hadn’t ever taken it away. The specifics weren’t important — not when the arguments coming from the locker room were definitely getting louder, shouts of _this is insulting_ and _the internet must know better than you_ and Emma only exhaled once before she walked in. 

More exceptionally small victories. 

“This is just our moment to shine, Cap,” Will said, and he was standing on the bench in front of his locker with his phone held loosely in his hand. “I’m telling you—”  
  
“—Scarlet, if you tell me that the internet is smarter than me one more time, I’m going to check you. Hard.”   
  
“Find a stick first!”

“Are we not still in Madison Square Garden?” Phillip mumbled. “I don’t think it’d be that hard for him to find a stick.”  
  
Will glared at him. “Whose side are you on?”   
  
“Ours, obviously. But I’ve got to play twenty minutes later tonight and—”   
  
“—Oh no, no, no,” Robin cried. “You do not get to use ice-time as some marker of success. We are all on the same line, Rook!”   
  
“I legitimately have not been a rookie in seasons. Like, seasons.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“You guys didn’t even get nominated!”   
  
It was difficult to make out who was shouting what — and at who — after that, Emma’s shoulders slumping when she let out another put-upon sigh. No one had noticed her come in. 

And the clack of Ruby’s heels was very loud. 

“You think we should be recording this?” she asked, coming up behind Emma so she could hook her chin over her shoulder. 

“Doesn’t inspire much team camaraderie does it?” Emma muttered. 

“I do find it pretty entertaining, though.”  
  
“You really think first line will get twenty minutes tonight?”   
  
“Probably depends on what happens in the first period and if the defense can hold onto a late-game lead this time.”   
  
Will’s glare got more pointed. “I heard that Lucas.”   
  
“I wasn’t trying to be quiet about it,” she countered. “You guys ready to talk about this like passably mature adults now?”   
  
“Have we not been mature?” Robin asked. 

“Look at yourselves. Right now. In this locker room. Where you’re shouting. And Scarlet is standing on a bench.”  
  
“I had to make sure everyone could see,” Will reasoned. “That Rook and I got nominated. For best bromance. In the whole league. Like—the whole goddamn league. You know who didn’t get nominated, Lucas?”   
  
Ruby sighed.   
  
“Em, Em,” Will said quickly, and he barely broke stride jumping from the bench to the floor and directly into her space. His phone almost hit the tip of her nose. “Em, did you happen to hear who got nominated for best bromance in the whole entire national hockey league?”   
  
“You and Rook?”

He winked. Badly. “That’s right! Me and Rook. Best bromance. Bros. Being—”  
  
“—Scarlet, I was not kidding about the checking thing,” Killian muttered. 

“And I am not threatened, Cap. Because you know what I’ve got to defend me? The power of a pure and good bromance. What do you have?”  
  
“A hockey stick?”   
  
Will shook his head. “Nope. You’ve got, uh—what’s he got, Lucas? Come on, I need something super insulting and mean.”   
  
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Ruby answered, but the insult lost some of its weight when the ends of her mouth ticked up. 

Seriously, the whole thing was absurd. 

Emma wasn’t even sure bromance was technically a word. 

“Cap has nothing,” Will announced. “No nomination, no love from the fans, no accolades regarding the epic'ness of his bromantic possibility—”  
  
“—Ok, that’s not even English anymore,” Emma interrupted. 

Killian wasn’t very good at winking either, but she was also married to him and really had spent far too long glaring at her laptop, so she was willing to overlook his shortcomings. 

And his lack of best bromance nomination in the NHL during the league’s fan-voting awards. 

“I’m getting my point across though,” Will said. “And I’m seriously annoying both Cap and Locksley, so I’m going to go out on not-much of a limb and say that I have already won.”  
  
Emma lifted her eyebrows. 

His smile got wider. 

“You realize you have a partner in this bromance, right?”

“Rook and I are totally in love,” Will promised, twisting to glance back at a clearly amused Phillip. “Isn’t that right, Rook?”  
  
“Totally in love,” Phillip agreed. 

“No, no, no,” Robin objected. “This is insane. If anyone is going to be in a legitimate bromance—God, we’ve got to come up with another word for it. I can’t keep saying that on loop anymore.”  
  
“There isn’t another word for it, Locksley,” Will grinned. “Maybe that’s why you guys didn’t get the nom. Scared of a few letters.”   
  
Phillip nodded, the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his cheek when his expression turned entirely mocking. “Scarlet and I have just as much reason to be nominated for this extremely prestigious award as you and Cap do.”   
  
“Laying it on almost too thick, don’t you think?” Emma murmured. 

Apparently none of them could wink. 

And her phone rang again — what she could only imagine was Elsa calling, because the Vankald sisters might have gotten Liam to accept a making-fun-time-buffer, but Emma knew neither one of them had agreed to any of that. 

“We just announced that we were in love, Em,” Phillip argued. “Who could doubt that?”  
  
“I’m not doubting anything. Also Lizzie-Vankald Jones thinks you’re cute.”   
  
She took far too much joy in how quickly he blinked in response to that. Robin had to use Killian as support when he started laughing, and Emma chuckled when they both gaped at her. 

“If you guys do win—”  
  
“—When we win, Em, God,” Will groaned. 

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Like a professional. “If you guys do win, then I’m going to assume that a lot of it had to do with Lizzie and her, apparently, very strong thoughts on Rook’s hair.”  
  
“My hair?” Phillip yelled. 

Killian hadn’t really ever looked away from Emma, so she couldn’t say she was surprised to find him openly staring at her, but the amused expression mixed with the playoff beard and the crinkles around his eyes were enough to leave her blushing just a bit. In a flirty-type way. 

“You’ve been talking to Banana,” he said. 

“Oh, she’s a gossip.”  
  
“And a very efficient texter. Lots of scathing opinions.”   
  
“I’m pretty positive El has called me half a dozen times already,” Emma admitted. “Has Liam held up his end of the bargain?”   
  
“I didn’t know there was one.”   
  
“Anti-mocking or something. I’m sure there were signatures involved.”   
  
“But not for the kid, huh?”   
  
“Well, she is four. Little early to be bringing her to a notary, don’t you think?”   
  
Killian chuckled, leaning back against his locker so he could cross his feet at the ankles. “You think we should be telling Mattie how to vote?”   
  
“Dr. J is going to vote for us,” Will yelled. “Listen—I am, hands down, his favorite. There’s not even an argument about that!”   
  
“How’s he going to vote?” Emma challenged. “With the power of his mind?”   
  
“You and Cap both have phones.”   
  
“Maybe we shouldn’t be advocating for the kid to have a phone,” Robin suggested, Will huffing in disgusting. 

“See, this is why I’m inherently better. At least I’m using names.”  
  
“Nicknames,” Ruby corrected. “I don’t think that counts. Also I’m mini-Jones’ favorite, so like—get your facts straight, Scarlet.”

He was going to dry out his tongue if he kept sticking it out so much. 

“And,” Killian added, “if we’re going to bring nicknames into this, then Locksley and I definitely win. Rol has had a nickname for me forever. Which I think is even more important, since it’s the kid giving me one. And not me. Giving a child a nickname.”

Robin nodded seriously. “Bromantic partners with kids. Who have clearly been snubbed of their deserved nomination.”  
  
“Em are you seriously not offended by this?” Will asked. 

“Not really, no.”

“Locksley is trying to steal your parenting rights! How many sticks has Locksley bought your kid? Huh? Not enough.”  
  
“If you keep buying my kid sticks, Scarlet, I am going to delete your entire Instagram account.”   
  
“You having a nickname for Matt,” Robin continued, “just proves that your bromantic—God, seriously, fuck this word. But it means you're not nearly as good of friends with Rook as you think.”   
  
“A poet, Locksley,” Ruby chuckled.   
  
“How annoyed are you that this isn’t being live-streamed?”   
  
“I was at first, but now I’ve realized that collectively all four of you are absolute idiots, so I think I’m doing you a favor by keeping this self contained. Don’t worry, though, the team’s already got big plans to blow it out. Especially if you win. Scarlet try and get a first assist on one of Rook’s goals tonight, ok?”   
  
“That’d suggest Scarlet is playing in the offensive zone,” Killian muttered, and it wasn’t the best insult, but nothing about this conversation had been all that good or entirely mature, so it was probably a wash. 

Will sneered at him. “Rook and I got locked out of the Olympic Village together once!”

Emma threw her head back when she groaned again, dimly aware of how quickly Killian’s voice rose and even Phillip had the good sense to duck his head and stare at his shoes for exactly three and a half seconds. 

“This is not your best friendship proof,” Robin said. 

“No, no, no,” Will objected. “It totally is! We weren’t even playing for the same country at the time and our bromantic love was that strong. No allegiance to any flag, just each other.”

“And how did that work out for you, exactly?” Killian asked. 

“We won a gold medal.”  
  
“You got my pregnant wife stranded in the fucking Olympic Village!”

Ruby’s chin threatened to dig into Emma’s shoulder when she cackled — directly in Emma’s ear. “There it is,” she mumbled. “Took longer for him to shout about that than I expected, honestly.”  
  
“He’s got to build up to his anger,” Emma reasoned. 

“You know he might actually kill someone on the ice later on.”  
  
“Eh, it worked out ok in the moment.”   
  
“Thank you,” Will yelled. “Yes, thank you, Em. Because—you know, Cap. If you really want to get technical about this, Emma was not your wife at that point. She wasn’t even your fiancée yet, so—”   
  
“—Because you guys kept ruining the proposal!”   
  
“And why is that? Could it have had something to do with Locksley’s kids not having a lot of fun on that mountain and showing up and disrupting your plans? Sounds like that’s a reason for you not to be bromantically involved.”

“It really did work out ok eventually,” Emma murmured, feeling as if she had to defend herself just a bit. 

Honestly, Killian was so bad at winking. 

“My kid is not going to vote for you, Scarlet,” he said. “I hope those guys from the Oilers beat you and Rook. Soundly.”  
  
“Soundly,” Will parroted. “That’s scathing, Cap. Seriously, I’m offended.”   
  
“I’ll give you very good odds Cap gets into a fight later tonight,” Ruby laughed. 

Killian shook his head. “No fights. Because I know I’m right. Also, I’m the reason Locksley met Gina, so—that’s a billion points.”  
  
“Are there rules to this point system we’re working with?”   
  
“Makes about as much sense as two points to the winner of an OT game and one point to the loser,” Emma mumbled, getting more than a few exclamations of agreement in return. 

“That’s the most scathing opinion we’ve heard so far,” Robin said. “And Cap is kind of right. I mean—technically, it was Mr. V because he knew Gina’s dad, but—”  
  
“—Then it doesn’t count,” Will snapped. “If we start including everything Mr. V has done for any of us, then we’re going to be here all day and no one’s going to get on the ice.”   
  
“And then where would that put us in this questionable at best points system?” Ruby quipped. 

“Winning! Rook and I are winning! We are the best bromance. We are in love.”

“Also,” Phillip said, “if we’re going to talk about the Vankald influence on this whole thing, then I’d really like to get back to the most important part of the conversation. That a child has better taste in hair than Emma does.”

“This is going to do dangerous things to your ego, isn’t it?” Emma mused.

“Clearly I am winning the Vankald love race. Which really makes me the supreme winner of all of this, points or no points, right?”

“Yeah, something like that. I do not think you have the best hair on this team, but you know, to each their own.”

“You don’t think I have good hair?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”   
  
“Please,” Will grumbled, “she’s contractually obligated to think Cap has the best hair.”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows were not going to be able to stand up to the rest of this conversation. Robin’s head was practically buried in the crook of Killian’s shoulder. “Got some real questionable thoughts on how marriage works, huh Scarlet?” she quipped. 

He stuck his tongue out. 

So she figured that got her at least several thousand points. 

Maybe some metaphorical ice time. 

“I feel like that should be another marker in our column,” Robin mumbled, not bothering to pull his head up. 

Emma scrunched her nose. “Better collective thoughts on marriage?”  
  
“And its continued success.”   
  
“With cute kids,” Killian chipped in. 

“Who aren’t going to vote for Rook and Scarlet.”  
  
“Now, c’mon,” Phillip sighed, “I know Matt’s defunct—”   
  
“—Seriously, phrase that differently,” Ruby suggested. 

“All I’m saying is that Rol has a phone. And free will. He should be more than capable of ensuring Rangers success because he doesn’t wear anything except team-branded t-shirts.”  
  
“I don’t see what that has to do with you,” Robin pointed out. 

Phillip waved him off, twisting back towards his locker so he could start getting ready because they really did have a game to win and that was probably still more important than what essentially amounted to a poll on the internet. “Whatever,” he grumbled, “even if you guys are going to hold back on the kid-vote because you’re bitter, we’ve got—”  
  
“—Lizzie,” Will finished. “Who, we can only hope, is as determined, well-organized and some might even say stubborn, as her mom.”   
  
“I’m going to tell El you said that,” Killian promised. 

“Then tell her to vote for us. You think we get an actual trophy when we win, or what?”

“Or what. Absolutely.”  
  
“Ah, screw you Cap. I’m going to score a goal later and then you’ll be annoyed.”   
  
“By winning?”   
  
“I hate you.”   
  
“Mini-Jones likes me best,” Ruby added, tugging her phone out of her back pocket. “Now, c’mon, I need pre-game shots and then we can tell everyone to vote for Rook and Scarlet and you guys can finish this conversation uptown later.”

They did exactly that — for several more hours, tucked into booths and draped over tables, half-finished plates and empty cups of water, hair that hadn’t quite dried from its post-game shower and Phillip made sure to point out that Emma’s fingers found their way into the strands at Killian’s neck no less than eight different times. 

The point system got even more complicated the longer they sat there, Ariel announcing “this is stupid, I’m getting some paper,” before taking stock of every pro and con to both friendships, while Mary Margaret did her best to play mediator to both sides. 

“She’s just waffling,” Emma accused, somewhere in the realm of midnight and her eyes were starting to flutter closed. Matt had been asleep for hours. With his head on her left thigh. 

Killian’s was too bruised for that .

“I am being impartial,” Mary Margaret corrected. “In what is absolutely the most inane thing we have ever done.”  
  
“You’re just mad you couldn’t vote more than you already have,” Ariel muttered. 

Emma’s gasp was far too dramatic. “Reese’s how many times did you vote?”  
  
“This is team-unity, Emma,” she hissed, all too aware of the several sleeping children around them. “Also, if Scarlet and Rook can’t beat those idiots from Edmonton, then what is the point of any of us?”   
  
“That’s actually a very good argument,” David said. 

“You just want to go home,” Killian muttered. 

“Don’t you? Are you not exhausted?”  
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“Ah, ok, well at least we’re on the same page there.”   
  
Will grunted when he leaned forward, grabbing one of Emma’s unfinished onion rings and she didn’t have enough energy to tell him to get his own food. “I, for one, appreciate the effort, Mary Margaret. And I’d like to remind everyone that Phillip is definitely the prettiest out of all of us, so that should count for several things.”   
  
“Are we voting on looks now?” 

“Whatever it takes to win, Em.”

She hummed, trying to pull herself closer to Killian — so she could get her head on his shoulder, but there wasn’t actually that much room and the kid plastered to Emma’s side did not appreciate how much she was moving. 

And the Oilers guys didn’t win, but neither did Will and Phillip and Emma was never entirely sure how they managed to get all of them in one photo frame after the results were announced. With their thumbs down. 

But it wasn’t for another decade and a half that she truly realized just how much she despised the NHL’s fan-vote awards. 

And the word bromance. 

“Mom, mom, mom, have you seen this?”

Phone clutched tightly in his hand, Matt marched into Emma’s office, weaving his way through autographed pucks and game-worn jerseys that threatened to spill out of the boxes they were stored in. “Have you seen this?” he repeated.   
  
“Have I seen what, exactly?”   
  
“This.”   
  
“I’m going to need a few more words, kid,” she said, holding her hand out for his clearly-vibrating phone and she already had a few ideas. It was the right time of year, after all. 

In the middle of a playoff run. 

“It’s stupid,” Matt announced. “Offensive, honestly.”  
  
Emma hummed, scrolling down to find exactly what she expected. Best Bromance. With no Locksley or Jones mentioned. 

Again. 

“Rol and I basically grew up together,” Matt pressed, seeming unperturbed by Emma’s lack of word-based response. He nearly stepped on one of the boxes when he started pacing. “I mean—if they’re looking for the exact definition of the word bromance, that’s got to be it, right? Mom, right?”  
  
“I don’t know, Mattie. I’m fairly positive the bro in bromance isn’t actually brother-based.”   
  
“Well, that’s stupid.”   
  
She had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. It only kind of worked. “Is now the right time to point out that you and Rol are not, in fact, on the same team?”   
  
“What does that have to do with it?”   
  
“It just seems like you should be on the same team, right? Tough to be bromantic with someone if you’re trying to check them into the glass next round.”   
  
“Trying suggests that I won’t check Rol into the glass next round,” Matt said, another hum out of Emma because there was really no stopping him when he got pacing like that. “But that’s—that’s not even the point.”   
  
“And what is the point, exactly?”

“That Rol and I are clearly the closest of anyone else in this stupid league! They make us do promos together during media events. We have done trivia contests! About each other! Stories have been written!”  
  
Emma propped her chin on her hand, sliding Matt’s phone back across her desk. He didn’t pick up. He was far too busy stomping across her office floor. “Don’t tell me that you and Rol weren’t psyched to do those trivia contests. Lying to you mother’s not a good habit to get into.”   
  
Matt stopped. 

Half an inch away from a Knicks jersey Emma hoped someone paid an exorbitant amount of money for in a few days. 

“Did you say the word bromantic before?” he asked.   
  
“This is not my first run with the phrase.”

“Huh.”  
  
“That’s about the reaction it deserves, honestly. Are you really that upset about this?”   
  
Matt sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Emma was going to bite through her lip. “I mean—not really, I guess. Rol is definitely way more upset than I am. But I think half of that is Lizzie anyway.”   
  
“What does Lizzie have to do with any of this?”   
  
“Uh, well, I haven’t heard all of the details yet, but I’m at least seventy-six percent positive she’s organizing a write-in effort for us. She wants to know what the bromance qualifications are.”   
  
“Say that again,” Emma challenged. 

The tips of Matt’s ears went red, finger back in his hair when he ducked his head. “No thanks.”  
  
“Yuh huh.” There really wasn’t much room to navigate when Emma stood up, especially with Matt half slumped the way he was, but he didn’t scrunch his nose when she tapped her thumb against his chin. Or when she kissed his cheek. “You’re a competitive weirdo, you know that?”   
  
“Blame my genetics.”   
  
“That’s all Dad, I refuse to accept any responsibility for it.”   
  
He scoffed, but the arm that found its way around Emma’s shoulders was comforting in a way that occasionally repetitive history could be. “What are you doing right now? You want some pre-game hot chocolate?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded, tugging on the front of Matt’s exceptionally blue shirt and they were definitely going to play the Flyers next round. If they won that night. They were absolutely going to win that night. “Let’s go.”   
  
And Emma wasn’t really surprised by what happened after that — Matt’s goal sparking some kind of eruption of cheering in the second period, or the win it ensured, or how quickly Locksley-Jones got added to the category once the fan response surged, Lizzie holding up a sign with orange and blue letters that simply said VOTE on Roland’s Instagram. 

That was probably what put them over edge, really. 

Because they won. 

And Will never let Killian or Robin ever forget it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris Kreider and Mika Zibanejad deserve to win best NHL bromance every single season. It is a crime they weren't nominated. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where it is constantly missing hockey hours.


	3. A Few Days Off for Christmas, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up top note because several (read: two) years ago, I published the first part of three Christmas-themed Blue Line one shots that I am now only just now getting around to finishing. Or posting, really. They've been written for those two years, I'm just lazy. If you are so inclined to check out the first installment of this mountain of fluff, it is hereTumblr where I'll inevitably be screaming about Chris Kreider and who should be captain of the New York Rangers, because HOCKEY STARTS NEXT MONTH.

The door was going to fly off its hinges. 

One bump became two, evolving into several kicks before it turned into something astoundingly similar to a hip check and—“Oh my God,” Killian groaned, squeezing his eyes shut while also doing his best to melt into the mattress. Didn't work. 

He hadn’t really expected it to. 

“Your fault,” Emma mumbled, half into the pillow and partially into the mess of hair covering that same pillow. Her hair was everywhere. And she was smiling. Killian didn’t bother double checking 

Maybe smiled himself, actually. Despite whatever was happening on the other side of the door. None of the noises resembled an actual knock. Cracking open one eye, the ends of his mouth tilted up slowly and his hand moved before he even thought about it, reaching out to trace the curve of Emma’s stomach. 

Another noise. 

They were going to have to get out of bed eventually. 

Or the kids in the hallway would resort to drastic measures. 

“How’d you get to that conclusion, exactly?” Killian asked, twisting until he managed to lift his arm up in some unspoken attempt to get Emma closer to him. Getting out of bed could wait five minutes. Possibly six if they were feeling exceptionally greedy. 

It was Christmas Eve, after all. 

Something about the holiday, although that would also suggest the opposite of greed and probably something else about peace on Earth and goodwill amongst men, but the door was not going to stand up to much more of this and if Emma kept biting her lower lip like that Killian wasn’t sure he could be held accountable for his actions. Ten minutes more in bed, at least. 

“Your kid is checking the door, Cap,” Emma said, voice lacking any frustration, “how could this be anyone else’s fault?”

His heart jumped. 

Skipped a beat, and then defied several other biological rules, and none of that should surprise him anymore. Not when they were nearly six months removed from the third Stanley Cup, and the prospect of a full Jones line wasn’t all that intimidating. Even with the limited space in their apartment. They’d figure it out. Had to, really. And all of it was good. Perfect, honestly. Was nice in a way that deserved a far better adjective, because retirement hadn’t really stuck. 

Had rather quickly evolved, actually. Into director of player development for the New York Rangers, a job that came with a fancy office and polo shirts that made Emma’s eyes widen ever so slightly, although Killian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to notice that, and Matt came to practice with him. 

Regularly. 

That was now coming back to haunt Killian. 

And the structural integrity of his and Emma’s bedroom door. 

“Blame Scarlet,” Killian argued, “he’s ancient, so he’s got nothing better to do during practice than prove his worth to Matt. This is all his technique.”  
  
“Ah, well now I kind of feel like a jerk.”   
  
“No, no, he does not get your pity. The kid’s leading with his shoulder out there.”   
  
“Is that not how it’s supposed to work, then?”   
  
Making a noise in the back of his throat only served to hurt the back of Killian’s throat, Emma’s expression some sort of flashing neon sign that he was being effectively teased and—

She gasped. 

“Swan?”  
  
Far from parenting experts — and closer to apartment-hunting procrastinators than either one of them would like to admit — they had gone through this twice before, so Killian figured there was something to be said for confidence borne of experience, and he wasn’t really nervous at the hitch in Emma’s breath or the overall dexterity of her fingers when she yanked his hand forward. 

No noise on that kick, but it was definitely a kick and his heart must have evolved at some point. Beyond human emotion and into the stratosphere of family-based feelings and if Killian didn’t win the air hockey tournament, he was going to be very disappointed. 

Matt was yelling in the hallway now. 

“Took offense at the technique, I guess,” Emma laughed, “I think he’s trying to show off.”  
  
Killian exhaled. That was unexpected. He hadn’t realized he’d decided to hold his breath. Twelve extra minutes in bed, maybe. They were already late, might as well be _very_ late. 

The door swung open. 

“Dad! Dad! Dad,” Matt yelled, leaping onto the edge of the bed and Emma barely moved her feet in time. Killian wasn’t so lucky. 

Groaning when an elbow somehow found its way into his calf, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “What did we talk about with the door, kid?” Killian asked, trying to shift his leg so Matt would realize he needed to move. 

No such luck. 

All he got was the dramatic sigh of a nine-year-old who appeared close to demanding Christmas-type attention, and Matt’s head hung over the side of the bed as several pillows fell on the floor. “I knocked—kind of.”  
  
Emma’s snicker was far too loud. 

Killian gaped at her, but that only got him a wider-than-usual smile, and several strands of hair that drifted dangerously close to her eyes when she propped herself up on her elbows. “Nuh uh, don’t look at me like that. It’s Christmas, and that’s my excuse for everything for at least the next seventy-two hours.”  
  
“So, the day after Christmas too?”   
  
“You heard me.”   
  
Killian’s grin threatened the muscles in his cheeks, nosing at the side of Emma’s cheek because he couldn’t get much closer with a kid draped over his stomach. Or while that kid was groaning quite so loud. 

“Gross, gross, gross,” Matt chanted, and the distinct lack of footsteps following him should have been their first clue. Killian was willing to blame Christmas for that too. 

And Will, just on principle. 

“Thanks for the commentary,” Emma grinned, “why were you checking the door?”  
  
“I wanted to talk to you guys.”   
  
“Did you just?”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma’s. Not parenting experts, but at least passably observant and they really should have checked to see where Peggy was. “What about? And for future reference, checking is not the same as knocking. Who’s even teaching you to check like that because if it is actually Scarlet, then—”   
  
Matt shook his head. Ducking his gaze, the bedding was suddenly far more interesting than anything Killian could have asked, and Emma shrugged when he glanced up again. “Not Scarlet?” Another head shake. “What’s going on, kid ?”   
  
What felt like several hours passed, color rising in Matt’s cheeks — which wasn’t really fair, because watching his own reactions play out on his kid’s face seemed like some form of emotional torture for Killian, who was barely managing to temper his impatience. He rested his hand on Matt’s back. 

“At the Piers?” Killian pressed, only to get a noise that was far too familiar as well. Not quite an agreement, but not an argument either and he briefly wondered how the Vankalds ever dealt with him like this. He knew the answer before he asked—“Dylan, huh?”  
  
Shrugging couldn’t have been easy for Matt when Emma’s hand joined Killian’s on his back, but he made the effort all the same. It somehow ended with an elbow in Killian’s ribs. 

“I’s not a big deal,” Matt muttered. “I just—”  
  
“—Wanted to beat down our door?” Killian finished, fully prepared for the scowl he got and Emma’s inability to control the sound of her own reactions might have been one of his favorite things in the world. “He’s not going to be there. They went to visit Eric’s parents this year.”

At some point in the last nine years, it seemed the entire New York Rangers roster had collectively fallen into _family mode_ , a decision that, while not entirely planned, left the lot of them with kids in the same age bracket. And Dylan Havfrue, at just eight months older than Matt, was ready-made for rivalry. Already impossibly tall for a nine-year-old, he was a penalty-minutes record waiting to happen and not nearly as fast as Matt. 

It wasn’t that Dylan and Matt _didn’t_ get along. At least when they were off the ice. On the ice, they played the same position on the same team, competing for minutes and stats and, well, at the risk of losing any metaphorical Christmas points, Killian knew Matt was better. Than Dylan. 

And just about everyone else at Chelsea Piers. 

“Oh,” Matt said, head falling back onto Killian’s chest and for half a moment it felt like years before and they weren’t dealing with some kind of first-ever bully situation.

“You getting checked, kid? Is that what’s going on?”

Matt shrugged again, burrowing closer to Killian like that would somehow make the conversation end. It wouldn’t — but the footsteps finally racing down the hall might, and they’d probably have to reconsider that whole _parent of the year_ thing when it was obvious one of their kids was hopped on pre-Christmas sugar. 

Of the stolen variety. 

“Do not jump on this bed, Margaret,” Emma warned, but the smile was back and her voice was soft and Peggy barely slowed enough to flop onto the comforter with a soft thump. 

Frosting lined the corners of her mouth. 

“Why are you guys here?” she asked. “We have to go! We have to go! Aunt Anna said I could—” Pausing to take a deep breath, her shoulders heaved. “I could use her camera this year, and Kris is going to help and—”  
  
“—How many cookies, Margaret Jones?”   
  
“No cookies!”   
  
Scrunching her nose, Emma hummed in disbelief as she leaned forward. To wipe away the frosting. “Next time make sure you get rid of the evidence, huh? How’d you even find the cookies? They’re supposed to be on a shelf.”   
  
“Don’t look at me,” Killian balked when Emma stared accusingly at him. “They’re up there. They’ve been up there since last night.”   
  
“MD and I got them while you and Dad were asleep,” Peggy explained, as if staging a daring cookie rescue on Christmas Eve was to be expected. 

“Mar!” Pushing his hand into Killian’s stomach when he sat up, Matt’s groan echoed around the room .”You weren’t supposed to tell!”

“I was stuck! You ran away and I had to—”  
  
“—Wait, what?” Emma interrupted sharply. Neither kid noticed. 

Killian resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Fifteen extra minutes in bed. Ten of which should be used to talk about the Dylan thing, and proper checking technique, and then three minutes solely for kissing Emma. They’d use the other two minutes to get the kids out of the room. 

Like responsible adults, and successful parents. 

“You were taking too long,” Matt said, “and I wanted to talk to Dad and—”  
  
“—I had to jump off the counter!”   
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” Killian snapped, voice rising on every repeat and both kids sat up straighter. Emma tried to turn her laugh into a noise that didn’t sound like a laugh and it absolutely didn’t work. “No more cookies. No more plans for cookies. No more leaping off the counter, Margaret. Understood?”

“Hockey voice,” Peggy whispered. Or, at least, tried. She glanced meaningfully at Matt, who just widened his eyes in response, lips ticking down and it all felt so _painfully_ familiar and painfully _family_ that any frustration Killian felt disappeared all too quickly. 

“Hockey _captain_ voice,” Emma corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Peggy’s temple and grinning at her conspiratorially. 

“Swan,” Killian sighed. 

She shrugged. “I kind of want a cookie now.”  
  
“We know where they are,” Peggy said, rushing over the words like they weren’t an admission and they hadn’t just been talking about the great Christmas Eve cookie theft.   
  
“Yeah, I picked up on that. C’mon, lead me to the cookies, Peg, and then we should pack.”   
  
“I packed!”   
  
“I’ve heard that before. Last year, we got downtown with three t-shirts and no pants. We’re not doing that again, so—let’s go, feet on the floor.”

Peggy grumbled, but she didn’t argue and Killian tried not to smile too widely. At the scene in front of him, or the memory of last Christmas — two shirts with his number on them and another with a Team USA logo on the front, and Locksley emblazoned across the back. It had made Roland blush. 

“We’ll save you guys some cookies,” Emma promised, following Peggy out the door and Killian waited until he heard the squeak of glass sliding across the counter before he looked at Matt. Who hadn’t so much as blinked yet. 

“You want to talk now?” Killian asked, Matt making an eerily similar noise to the one he’d let out a few minutes earlier. “How come you didn’t say anything about Dylan?”  
  
“Wasn’t really a big deal.”   
  
“Sure, sure, you’re not supposed to check much at the Piers.”   
  
“I’m not the one checking.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian said, tugging on the front of Matt’s shirt. More team-branded merch. That might have been all Matt owned. “He been doing it for long?   
  
“Since the start of the season.”   
  
“You tell Hopper?” Matt shook his head. “How come you didn’t tell us before, kid? And how come you’re pushing your sister on kitchen counters to steal cookies that we’re supposed to bring downtown?”   
  
“I didn’t push Mar on the counter. She got up there on her own. And it was her idea.”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, filing _that_ particular bit of information away for a day when they weren’t, once again, behind schedule or coping with on-ice issues of a nine-year-old rec league. 

Matt played in more than one league. 

“Not an answer.”  
  
“I know,” Matt sighed. “I just...it’s stupid. He’s stupid.”   
  
“It’s not stupid if he’s breaking the rules,” Killian countered, and Ariel was going to be upset. Disappointed, too. Which, as everyone knew, was fundamentally worse. “He can’t check you. You guys are way too young for that.”   
  
“You tell all the guys at practice that they don’t need to back down from hits!”   
  
Taking a deep breath was impossible when his lungs were busy disintegrating in his chest, but Killian figured it also might have had something to do with the kid still sitting on his legs and Matt didn’t object when he hooked his chin over his shoulder. “They’re getting paid to get hit. Not quite there yet, Mattie.”.   
  
“He’s really good at checking,” Matt grumbled. “Better than me. Even Uncle Will thinks so.”   
  
“Uncle Will’s opinion on this isn’t important. And he shouldn’t be teaching you how to check either. You’ll end up in the box and then you can’t score goals.”   
  
“I guess.”   
  
“Them’s the facts, kids.” Matt considered that, body shifting with the force of his sigh and distinct inability to argue. Forty-seven thousand parental points, at least. Killian grinned at him. “You tell us stuff from now on, ok? No matter how stupid you think it is. That’s the gig, for me and Mom.”   
  
“And you didn’t really check guys.”   
  
“Because I wanted to score goals. Not sit in the box for two minutes.”   
  
“Scoring goals is cool.”   
  
Killian nodded, trying to regain feeling in his legs. “You know, maybe we could go somewhere that isn’t the Piers sometime and you could take some shots. No checking, just —practice.”   
  
“Practice?”   
  
“On our own.”   
  
“With you?”   
  
His stomach joined the fray, that time. Flipping and flying directly into the middle of his throat, which didn’t do much to help his breathing. Worth it. For the look on Matt’s face, which was somewhere in the realm of of overjoyed and that was appropriate on Christmas Eve and—

“When? Could we go during the break? Today? While Rol and Henry are home? You think Uncle Liam will skate? Did they bring skates? I told Lizzie she should bring skates.”

Plans spilled out of Matt, hardly any defined syllables, more half-shouted demands and Killian felt the smile spread across his face quickly and easily and immediately. And if he’d never really considered a _family_ in some kind of chaotic, cookie-stealing, _perfect_ way, then he’d definitely never considered a son who wanted to practice his forehand at every available opportunity. 

“Relax,” Killian laughed, a flash of dark hair in the hall as it dashed towards another room and a suitcase that likely had four shirts in it. 

“What about the day after tomorrow?”

Matt nearly trampled Killian in his effort to jump off the bed, a cry that almost sounded like _yeah_ several times over, and he barely stopped before he collided with Emma. And the three cookies in her hand. 

“What did you do, Swan?” 

“With the cookies or—” Wrapping her arm around Matt, she pulled him against her side and he was far too busy announcing roster spots to express any sense of displeasure. The cookie she gave him likely helped too. “Rubes and I might have planned...something.”  
  
“As in?”   
  
“As in rented out that rink uptown for the day after Christmas because there’s a million and two people coming to the brownstone this year, and we’re going to need something to do after we try to kill each other in air hockey.”   
  
“This is a very violent family, we’re always threatening to kill each other.”   
  
“Or check,” Matt muttered. 

Emma kissed the top of his head.That got a reaction. “It’s also kind of nice. At least the air hockey. And Uncle Liam will totally have skates, so you can wreck him during faceoffs, Mattie.”  
  
Whatever noise he made at that wasn’t so much a human sound, as it was something that made Killian’s ears ring. Which he planned to use as an excuse. For walking forward, crowding into Emma’s space and kissing her. 

In a crashing, not-quite violent, but decidedly emotional sort of way. 

She pushed up on her toes. 

“I love you.”  
  
“Weird,” Emma said, but she also hadn’t moved her mouth away from his and that helped lessen any sense of insult. 

Killian hummed, bending his neck again with every intention to keep making out in the middle of the bedroom, and it wasn't how he initially planned to use his extra minutes, since it did involve far too much standing, but there was also kissing and he hadn’t noticed Matt leave. Only that Peggy was back. In surround sound.   
  
“We have to go! There are presents at V’s. Presents! And you guys not being gross.”

Clicking her tongue, Emma managed to stay pressed against Killian, even as she zipped up the backpack hanging off Peggy’s shoulder. “Take at least three jerseys out of your bag, Matthew David,” she added on a shout. 

Killian kissed her forehead. 

“But, I—” Matt objected, twisted around his doorframe. Emma widened her eyes. Killian assumed. He didn’t look. He was too busy narrowing his eyes. “Fine, fine, but Mar’s got to bring some socks.”

“Hat might not be a bad idea, either,” Killian added. “What about shirts for under the jerseys?”  
  
Silence. Of the resounding variety. 

“Figures,” Emma scoffed, ushering Peggy back and they were only half an hour behind schedule by the time the lock clicked behind them. Better than usual, really. 

* * *

The hat, despite assurances that _it’s in my bag, I promise_ never made it to the brownstone — forgotten in the desperation to get downtown for presents and eggnog and the force that had become Mr. and Mrs. Vankald _grandparents_. 

Adopting Roland and Henry into the fold was as natural as anything, the Locksley family welcomed with open arms after that initial Christmas spent on the living room floor. Especially once Regina started baking. And Leo Nolan was in the midst of a Christmas obsession to rival any kid on the planet, certain Santa preferred the cookies left in front of Vankald fireplace above any other offerings. 

Liam and Elsa’s twins, far removed from their own obsessions over cookies for Santa, had stepped into key air hockey roles — refereeing and commentating — while Lizzie Vankald-Jones developed a trash-talking talent that left all of them just a bit stunned. 

There were, always, enough baked goods to feed several small countries and enough Chinese food to feed a large army, and enough laughter that it echoed in Killian’s head long after they went back uptown. There weren’t enough rooms for them. 

The kids all camped out in the living room. 

And the front door swung open before Killian could adjust the bags in his hands. 

“Why are you lurking by the door, Banana?”  
  
“Waiting for my money.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“My money,” she repeated, while failing to elaborate any more and this _bit_ they seemed to do every year had gotten old half a dozen Christmases ago. 

“They bet on when we’d get here,” Emma explained. Killian tugged Peggy towards his side so he didn’t do something he’d regret. Matt was trying to work into the brownstone already, mumbling about cookies. “How much, Anna?”

“Fifty bucks, super serious business.”  
  
“Sounds it.”   
  
Anna shrugged, leaning against the open door frame like it wasn’t December and starting to snow and the telltale smell of cinnamon wafted out onto the block. “Bah humbug, also you guys have never been on time for anything ever. I’m playing to tradition. But I should thank you, because all this was Scarlet’s idea, and he vastly underestimated you.”

“How so?” Emma asked, ignoring Killian’s huff of frustration. 

Peggy giggled. 

“Thought you’d be late, but only by like twenty minutes and—”  
  
“Hey, Banana,” Killian interrupted, and Anna’s eyebrows flew up her forehead when she heard the tone of his voice. She stood up a bit straighter. “In case you also hadn’t noticed, we’ve got some kids out here and Emma’s pregnant, so, uh if you could get out of the way, that’d be fantastic.”   
  
Crossing her arms with a huff, it almost looked like Anna was about to stomp her foot as well, and Emma rested her hand on Killian’s chest before he could start arguing. “Did Gina and Reese’s start baking yet? Because I think Killian could use some pie.”   
  
“Yeah, I think so,” Anna agreed, making a face at Killian and he hadn’t let go of Peggy yet. She grinned at the kids in front of her, holding out her hands expectantly and tugging them both inside. “You guys want some hot chocolate?”   
  
Bags were immediately dropped, forgotten on the steps, as soon as the words were out of Anna’s mouth, leaving Emma and Killian alone with her hand still flat against his jacket. “Maybe you should start checking something,” she suggested. 

Killian sighed, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold onto any tension. He kissed the top of Emma’s head instead. Mrs. Vankald probably had extra hats. “Seasonally inappropriate.”  
  
“Proves my point, i think.”   
  
“Fifty bucks.”   
  
“Just means we’re the hottest ticket in town.”   
  
He widened his eyes at her, and almost-three kids later the smirk didn’t really accomplish anything except getting Emma to groan, but it had been a strange day and he probably should have expected her to kiss him in response. “Center ice,” Killian said, grinning against her mouth. 

“Not even clever.”  
  
“It’s a work in progress.”   
  
“Guess that means I’ll have to stick around. See how it all plays out.”   
  
“You think you’re very funny.”   
  
Shaking her head, Emma pulled away before they could start making out in a different location, which was probably for the best, but also a little disappointing and he didn’t realize the door was still open. 

“Hook,” Roland said, a note to his voice that made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get their attention. 

“God, don’t sneak up on us like that. How—Swan, stop that.” She didn’t. Hair brushed his cheek when she kept laughing, body shaking against Killian’s side and the flush of embarrassment on Roland’s face shouldn’t have felt like a victory. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that Ruby won her bet.”  
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“What was that one, Rol?” Emma asked, twisting towards the teenager. “Also, can you take, at least, four of these bags before Killian has some kind of complete breakdown on the steps?”   
  
Roland chuckled, leaning forward to grab five bags in one hand. “Ruby bet David what you guys were doing on the steps and why Matt and Pegs ended up running into the kitchen without any parental supervision in sight. Their words, not mine.”   
  
“Jeez,” Killian repeated. “Where’s your dad and why isn’t he telling everyone to grow up?”

“He’s kind of busy.”

Nodding towards the foyer, Killian directed them inside as voices from several rooms made their way into the space and down the stairs that were, as always, covered in ivy and lights and the photos on the wall were different now. The draft night photo was still there, but there other ones too – Stanley Cup finals and second weddings and Roland in a red, white and blue uniform and, right in the middle, that very first Christmas when they’d all fallen asleep in the living room. 

That one hung in the apartment uptown too. 

“Was I right, Rol?” Ruby asked, walking into the foyer sporting a sweater that wasn’t just _ugly_ , was somehow bordering on atrocious and covered in hockey pucks. 

“What are you wearing?” Emma countered. 

Ruby brushed her off, staring expectantly at Roland who shook his head. “I’m still on the kid side. I want no part of this.”

“Was the door still open?”  
  
“Ruby.”

She grinned — that slow, slightly intimidating look that had terrorized reporters for the better part of the last decade — and jumped towards Roland, slinging her arms around him and pressing a kiss against his cheek. “You’re a God-awful spy,” she said. “David and I should have taken your loyalty into account.”  
  
“Where is David?” Emma asked, glancing towards the living room. “Or Robin and Will, for that matter? Or Henry. He’s supposed to show me what he’s writing.”   
  
Rolling her eyes, Ruby leaned back against Roland’s side and he was still holding the bags. “You can put those down, mate,” Killian muttered, grinning when he dropped several tons of presents on the floor. 

“Oh, that’s why we had Rol out for surveillance,” Ruby answered. “All of those adults are sitting at the kitchen table with several different poster boards and, at least, one full cake, trying to bracket out this year’s air hockey competition.”  
  
Emma laughed immediately, but Killian wasn’t sure if it was because of the absurdity of the news or because of how he’d reacted to it. Gaping at Ruby, his eyes widened when he looked towards Roland for confirmation. Who shrugged. 

That’s probably where Matt got it from. 

“What the hell, Lucas?” Killian yelled. “They’re supposed to wait until we’re all here. There are rules!”

“This is not my fault,” Ruby argued, backing away from Killian like he’d lost his mind. Emma’s lips had all but disappeared behind her teeth. “This is your crazy, insanely competitive tradition. If you want to have a seat at the literal table, you guys should get here on time. And stop making out on the steps. But I will tell you that Liam has tried to get himself higher up the bracket at least six times. Robin’s the only voice of reason. You owe him, Cap.”  
  
“I’m obviously the top seed, I won last year, that’s how it works. That’s science.”   
  
“Is there science involved?” Emma asked, Roland dropping onto the bottom step with one arm wrapped around his waist while he threw his head back. Laughing. Loud enough to draw an audience. Matt slid across the wood floor — shoes forgotten somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen and back again — and Killian ducked down out of instinct, grabbing him around the waist and tugging him back up 

“Dad,” he yelled, tugging on Killian’s t-shirt like that would get him to move. “Dad, you’ve got to come to the kitchen. Uncle Liam and Uncle Will are trying to form….”

“Alliances,” David finished, slinging his arm around Emma’s shoulders as soon as he stepped into the foyer. He kissed the top of her hair, looking almost repentant. 

Killian wondered how many alliances he’d made so far. 

“Right, right, alliances,” Matt continued, “you have to come. You’re the top seed. You won last year and you have to be up top. We’ve got to go now, Dad!”

Matt twisted, a mix of energy and excitement and _Christmas_ coming to a boiling point that demanded acknowledgement. He got it from Roland. As per usual. “C’mon, Matt. Let’s go challenge Henry to...something.”   
  
Lifting his suddenly-empty hands, Killian wasn’t sure what to say to any of that, only aware of how abrasive Ruby’s cackle was. “At the risk of repeating myself, Cap, this is your weird, competitive thing. Although Liam really is trying to cheat, so you know, go in there and be morally upstanding, or whatever.”

“Isn’t that David’s schtick? Maybe El.”  
  
David clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that, or not.”   
  
“Nah, that was totally a compliment. Although you were making bets.”

“Oh, what the hell Ruby?” David groaned. “You weren’t supposed to ask them! Rol was supposed to look.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we forgot that Roland Locksley thinks Killian is some kind of hero. He wasn’t going to rat no matter what he saw.”   
  
“For the record,” David said, “I said you guys weren’t making out on the front steps with the door wide open, so, you know, take that into account. Although Elsa is probably the most moral.”   
  
“Not Reese’s?” Emma asked. She took a step back to Killian, sliding underneath his arm like there was a magnet in his side. “I mean, if we’re going to stage moral high ground competition, she’s got to be near the top.”   
  
“Is this conversation weird?” Ruby asked, sitting on one of the bags in the middle of the floor despite protests from Emma and Killian. “This conversation seems weird. Especially when Cap’s going to get screwed out of his top seed and anything Mary Margaret bakes is going to get devoured by the ridiculous number of kids in this house.”

As if on cue, a crash echoed from the general vicinity of the dining room and Mrs. Vankald shouted from the second floor, voice carrying as well as it had thirty years before. She leaned over the edge of the bannister, eyes falling on Killian’s immediately and he waved — like he was ten years old and just coming back from practice. 

“Tell Liam he can’t cheat this year,” she shouted. 

“I think you’re picking favorites, Mrs. V.”  
  
“I bought three things of creamer this year and Liam’s determination to circumvent the bracket rules means they’ve already been through one. I’m picking the Jones brother who isn’t going to ransack my refrigerator and well-organized food options.”

Killian scoffed, but Mrs. Vankald just tilted her head, staring at him with a fondness that, maybe, left him blushing in the middle of the foyer in front of pictures of his entire family. “We bought a new container of cinnamon for you, Emma,” she added. “If Liam’s even looked at that, I give you full permission to kick him out of the tournament.”  
  
“Wow,” Emma breathed. Ruby made a face, mouth tilted down as if kicking Liam out of an _air hockey tournament_ was the worst insult a person could level against another human being. “I’ve never really felt this powerful.”   
  
“I trust you. You’ll use your power for good.”

“Maybe Mrs. V is the most moral,” Ruby suggested, but Killian shook his head quickly. 

“Nuh uh,” he objected. “She’s pulling all the strings up there. Who do you think demanded the referee last year?”

“Go claim your number one seed, Killian,” Mrs. Vankald said. She paused for a moment, pressing her lips together tightly and the air in the foyer seemed to shift noticeably, something _important_ about to happen or, maybe, already happening and Emma shuffled closer. “And...uh, come talk to me before dinner.”   
  
“A little foreboding, I’ll be honest.”

“Fill out the bracket first.”

Saluting was another child-esque response, but Killian was almost positive he was getting shorter the longer he stood there and something crashed in the kitchen. Mrs. Vanaklad rolled her eyes. 

* * *

The crash, it turned out, was a makeshift hockey puck smacking into the baseboard of the dining room, leaving a sizable dent in its wake as the twins argued with Henry over what constituted as the blue line when there was a table and a dozen chairs in the way. 

And Killian wasn’t sure which took longer – figuring out _those_ rules or keeping Peggy from climbing on top of the dining room table in an attempt to keep the game _organized_ or attempting to figure out an air hockey bracket. 

It was definitely the bracket. 

“You can’t do this again, Liam,” Will sighed, perched on the edge of the counter. “I’m actually going to go insane if you do this again.”  
  
Liam muttered a string of curses under his breath and Killian’s head fell forward, colliding with Emma’s back. She was balanced on his leg, his arm around her waist and her fingers trailing over his hand, tracing over scars and up towards his wedding ring. It was almost enough to make him relax. Until Liam started complaining about seeding again and the whole process had to start over. 

“Why don’t we keep better records?” Robin asked, not for the first time. They were clearly stuck in a time warp. Of Christmas competition and a dwindling coffee creamer supply. “Can’t El do that? Isn’t that, like, her job?”  
  
“Do you know what a state senator does, Locksley?” Elsa asked. She’d collapsed onto Liam’s chair when he started pacing two brackets ago, resting her chin on the top of her pulled-up legs. 

“I’m assuming your tone that I don’t.”

“Ding ding ding.”  
  
“The problem,” Liam started, and Killian didn’t even try to mask his groan. He knew where this was going. The same place it had been going for the last two hours. Absolutely nowhere. “Is that we…”   
  
“Have an uneven bracket,” the kitchen finished, and Liam paced louder. Somehow. 

“We just have to figure out who’s going to play-in.”  
  
“Liam if you say that one more time, I’m going to strangle you with tinsel,” Killian threatened. 

“That is oddly specific.”  
  
“Christmas spirit.”   
  
“That’s another Scrooge reference,” Emma shouted, twisting to knock her knuckles against his shoulder and Killian bit his lip tightly so he didn’t actually make any noise. They shouldn’t have kept flirting in the kitchen. While Liam freaked out about traditions and tinsel. “How come we didn’t bet on how many times you’d make Scrooge references?”   
  
“Because we’re adults, Swan,” Killian answered. 

Elsa scoffed. 

“Ok, if I offer myself up for a play-in game, would that help?” Robin asked, dragging the poster across the table and writing in his name before Liam could object. 

“Locksley’s going all _dad mode_ ,” Will muttered. “Put Mary Margaret in there too. She said she’d play-in to help because she’s a better person than all of us.”   
  
The kitchen hummed in agreement, and Robin finished half the bracket by the time Liam stopped pacing. Forty-five minutes, and only three more arguments later, the entire thing was full of mismatched handwriting in several different Sharpie colors. 

Liam taped it to the basement door. 

“You know,” Emma drawled, somehow still sitting on Killian’s leg, “I’m coming for your title.”

“That so? Care to place a wager on that?”

“I thought we were going to be grown up.”  
  
“I mean, no one has to know except us. Save face when you lose that way.”   
  
“Just diving right into the trash talk, huh?”   
  
“You’re the one who started it, love. The real question is…”   
  
“Oh my God,” she groaned, but her eyes were bright and he’d probably think about her smile for a questionable amount of time. “If you say, _whether or not you’ll finish it_ , I’m going to punch you in the face.”   
  
Laughter flew out of him, any sense of competition forgotten in the rather desperate desire to make out with his wife again. “Maybe you should be teaching checking techniques.” Emma sneered, nails digging into Killian’s shoulder as she tried to stay balanced. On top of him. “Give me some credit, love. I’m not going to let you fall.”

Cliches and vaguely romantic double entendres were acceptable on Christmas Eve. Especially if it guaranteed that particular angle, Emma’s head tilted up and her teeth digging into her lower lip, and he couldn’t think when she did that. 

So. 

Kissing it was. Anything else was overrated. 

Although it did make it difficult to hear the pointed cough from the other side of the kitchen. 

Mr. Vankald rocked back on his heels when Killian finally looked up, amusement coloring his gaze even as the blush on Emma’s cheeks emitted a very specific kind of heat. “Super grown up,” she mumbled. 

“Be glad it wasn’t your brother,” Mr. Vankald reasoned. “Probably steal your number one seed.”  
  
“He hung the bracket up,” Killian argued. “That’s Christmas doctrine now. No more changes or the entire house will rise up in revolt.”

“Might keep things interesting.”  
  
“There’s a giant dent in the dining room wall and you’re still looking for interesting?”   
  
“Depends on how the next few minutes go. C’mon.” 

He walked away before either Killian or Emma could answer, leaving them sitting on one chair with matching looks of confusion on their face. “So, uh, we’re supposed to follow him, I guess?” Emma asked. 

Killian shook his head. “This has been the weirdest day.”  
  
“God bless us, every one.”   
  
“Something like that, for sure. Let’s go before someone else comes in.”

Mr. Vankald hadn’t waited for them – retreating to the dining room and the, now, multiple dents on the baseboards. Killian barely noticed them. He was more interested in the stack of papers sitting on the edge of the table, just a few inches away from the pile of plates and the almost questionable number of forks.

And whatever it was Mrs. Vankald was doing with her face. 

Like she was half a moment away from a waterfall of tears. If that was possible. It really had been a weird Christmas Eve. 

“What’s going on?” Killian asked cautiously, hooking his foot around one of the empty chairs and nudging Emma towards it. 

“Overprotective weirdo,” she mumbled. He grinned at her. 

“Mrs. V,” Killian continued, trying very hard not to tug on the back of his hair or grip Emma’s shoulder too tightly. “You want to expand on the mandate from before?”

She tilted her head in response, eyebrows lifted slightly and he wasn’t quite prepared for the force of her smile. 

Like he was seventeen and deciding to go to Minnesota. He told them he was going in the dining room. Or like he was seventeen and they’d found out he and Anna had snuck uptown on the one the weekend before. 

“Sit,” Mr. Vankald instructed, pointing at another chair next to Emma and they must have rented chairs. There were too many people in this family. “We’ve got approximately five minutes before Roland announces he’s hungry again.”  
  
“Is that the reason for the cloak and dagger?”   
  
“There’s neither cloak nor dagger,” Mrs. Vankald chastised, smile shaking ever so slightly when the tears finally fell to her cheeks. “Suggests this is bad.”   
  
“I feel like I’m about to get grounded.” 

“Did you get grounded a lot?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder and it absolutely would have been wrong to kiss her again. Although maybe Mrs. Vankald would stop crying then. 

Killian shook his head, smirk settling into place with practiced ease, and Emma rolled her eyes. She grabbed his hand. He’d appreciate that eventually. 

“Not grounded,” Mr. Vankald said suddenly and Killian snapped his head up. “We’re giving you the house.”  
  
Jaw dropping and shoulders sagging, Killian hadn’t really been holding his breath then either, but it had been a very weird day and his lungs were no longer functioning. Emma’s head moved on a swivel, eyes like saucers as she squeezed his fingers. His knuckles cracked. 

“Wait, what?”

“The house,” Mr. Vankald repeated, grinning and waving his hand through the air. 

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“What isn’t there to understand?”   
  
“Any of it?”   
  
Leaning forward, Mrs. Vankald pushed the pile of papers towards Killian’s free hand and he couldn’t actually make out the words on the page. His vision had gone glossy. 

And maybe he squeezed Emma’s hand that time. 

“But….” Emma started, licking her lips. “Why...we have an apartment.”  
  
Neither one of the Vankalds looked impressed. “And how many rooms does that apartment have?” Mr. Vankald challenged. “Also, we’re leaving.”   
  
Killian was glad he was sitting because his legs felt like he’d just skated sprints for the last several days. “What?” 

“Leaving. In a couple of months.”  
  
“I am….wait,” Killian sputtered, blinking again and staring at the doorway like a camera crew was going to appear and announce that this was all some practical joke. Or Liam was doing it to get in his head before air hockey. That would have made more sense. “You’re moving? From New York?”   
  
“Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Vankald said, “we couldn’t...not when you are…”   
  
“Super grandparents,” Emma finished, and Mrs. Vankald beamed. 

“Ok,” Killian said, trying to process everything that had happened since they’d walked into the brownstone. Maybe the kids would let him play hockey after dinner. He wanted to shoot at something. “So, let me get this straight. You’re moving out of the brownstone, but staying in New York and you’ve already decided this is all just going to be ours?”  
  
Mr. Vankald nodded, humming in the back of his throat. “See. Wasn't confusing, was it?”   
  
“You’re making jokes.”   
  
“Killian,” Emma whispered, staring at the papers in her hand. “It’s already done. This is...I mean I’m not a lawyer or a real estate agent or anything, but this is notarized.” She looked up at the Vankalds, eyes as glossy as his and Killian wished, not for the first time, that they could have these major life conversations on ice. He’d be able to keep his balance better that way. “When?” 

“When did we decide?” Emma nodded. “As soon as you brought Matthew home,” Mr. Vankald admitted. Killian wasn’t breathing. “And then when you told us you were expecting Christopher and Killian had retired, and it made sense. This is...we want you to have this.”

Mr. Vankald’s smile softened — like gifting the house Killian had grown up in wasn’t some kind of overwhelming type of decision. And on _C_ hristmas Eve, no less. Killian tried to swallow down the bundle of nerves and emotion in the back of his throat, leaning towards Emma before he realized he’d shifted in his chair. She kept moving her fingers, alternating between squeezing his hand and swiping her thumb across the back of his palm, and her eyes hadn’t moved away from the deed sitting in front of them. 

“You’re sure?” Killian asked, voice scratchy and maybe he wasn’t seventeen and going to Minnesota. Maybe he was eight years old and terrified that the Vankalds were going to kick him out of the house. 

Neither one of them answered immediately, but then the floorboards creaked and Mrs. Vankald was next to him, one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest and she stared at him like he was _hers_ in some kind of overwhelmingly emotional way. “There should be kids here and chaos and horsemen,” she whispered. “There should be yelling all the time and even more holes in the wall and maybe Mattie can learn how to properly check someone."

"See, scathing."

Mrs. Vankald scrunched her nose. "You should have that. Both of you. This is your home.”

Emma sniffled, lip between her teeth and head resting on Killian’s shoulder. “The Jones Line,” she muttered. “That’s what we’ve been calling it. You know with three of them.”  
  
“That’s perfect.” 

* * *

They put another hole in the dining room wall that night — Leo tripping over a hockey stick that somehow ended up propped against the table, and there had been crying and questions about concussions and no one knew how to administer medical assistance when Ariel wasn’t there. Which didn’t make much sense because she wasn’t actually a doctor. 

In the end, Leo opted to eat another egg roll. 

And then scored a goal when the quasi-hockey game resumed. Spread across several rooms and inching dangerously close to the Christmas tree, the game had taken on a life of its own, and Matt and Lizzie eventually had to be separated when they started arguing over the location of the penalty box. 

Mrs. Vankald handed out t-shirts when the game was called a draw, silencing the cries of half a dozen kids as soon as they were gifted brand-new team merch with their names on the back. Matt and Peggy each had a ‘C’ on their shoulder. 

“They tell you?” Elsa asked, knocking her hip against Killian’s where he was leaning against the wall. He nearly jumped a foot in the air. “Jeez, KJ, relax. This isn’t an interview.”  
  
“I am retired. I don’t do interviews anymore,.” 

“Please. You’re as retired as….something that makes sense.”  
  
“Coming up a little short of cliches, huh?”   
  
“I wasn’t looking for a cliche, just an example. Whatever, you’re deflecting. Did they tell you yet? Mom and Dad?”   
  
“How did you know?”   
  
“KJ.”   
  
Killian groaned, glancing back towards Emma. She was sitting on the corner of the couch, Matt in front of her and already tugging on his t-shirt, with Peggy’s head in her lap, eyelids fluttering and feet tucked underneath her. “Yeah,” he said, not sure why it felt like admitting to something. “Called us into the dining room like they wanted to discuss the end of the world and then just…”   
  
“Gave you the house.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
He hadn’t been expecting that — and that might have been why he couldn't quite shake the nerves or the twist in his gut and why his eyes kept darting towards Emma and their kids, like he was trying to make sure this wasn’t some ridiculous dream he’d come up with a decade before. 

“Good?” Killian asked, and Elsa nodded. 

“Do you not think it is?”  
  
“Look who’s deflecting now.”

“No, I’m confused. You guys have to move again anyway. Might as well move here. Put some more holes in the wall.”  
  
“That is exactly what Mrs. V said.”   
  
“God,” Elsa sighed. “Don’t tell me that. It makes me feel old.”   
  
Killian grinned, slinging his arm over her shoulders and Emma met his gaze across the living room — probably wondering why he kept staring at her like a lunatic. “Oh,” Elsa sighed, rapping her knuckles across the front of his shirt. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”   
  
“Merry Christmas.”   
  
“Does Emma know she’s married to a total idiot?”   
  
“Probably, at this point.” 

Elsa scoffed and the knuckles had taken a decidedly more aggressive approach. “I’m serious, KJ. How come you don’t think you should have the house?”  
  
“Get out of my head, witch.”   
  
“First of all, that’s rude. Second of all, you’ve been brooding and un-Christmas’y all night. Liam asked me what was wrong with you. He thought it had something to do with the bracket.”   
  
“He needs to stop with the bracket stuff,” Killian said, but Elsa narrowed her eyes and it felt _exactly_ like being disciplined by Mrs. Vankald. He didn’t mention that. 

“Third of all,” she continued, “It’s not like we’d take it. All things considered.”  
  
“What are the things we’re considering?”   
  
Gritting her teeth, Elsa sighed with all the drama of someone who’d been keeping something secret for several months. “You have to promise not to react because I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet.”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
“The national seat is up for reelection next year.” 

Killian waited for the rest of it, the explanation that would, eventually, hit and when it, finally, did, he felt like he’d been checked _over_ the boards. “Oh, shit,” he yelled, drawing the attention of the entire living room and several reproachful clicked tongues. Emma’s laugh still didn’t sound much like a cough. “Elsa Vankald-Jones takes on the world.”   
  
“At least Washington D.C.”   
  
“To start.”   
  
“You can’t vote, so your support doesn’t count, but I appreciate it,” Elsa smiled. “And this is yours, KJ. Has been forever. This city and this house and you should be here. Your kids should be here. Stop thinking otherwise.”   
  
Killian hummed, resting his chin on top of Elsa’s head until she cursed. Not in English She also didn’t move. And maybe that look Mrs. Vankald had given him before — that promise that this whole roster of a family that didn’t share a last name or much more than a ridiculous desire to make each other happy — was real. 

God bless us, every one. 

Or something. 

The kids fell asleep wearing matching t-shirts with the Christmas tree still on, and it only took a few minutes and several glasses of spiked eggnog to get the presents downstairs. 

And Emma was already in bed when he got to his room, pillows kicked on the floor.

“Are the stockings all hung?” 

“At least laid by the chimney with a relative amount of care.”  
  
Her eyebrows moved, lips twitching slightly and Killian tried to keep his hand out of his hair. It didn’t work. Appeared to be a trend that day. “You know, it’d be easier to get to the Piers from here,” she said. “More space. You really could teach Mattie how to check.”   
  
“I thought we weren’t encouraging the checking.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, but then he totally dominated whatever game they were playing and maybe he should have several thousand square feet to fine-tune that. Plus, you know, Ruby mentioned something.”   
  
Killian dropped onto the edge of the bed — knocking off a few more pillows in the process – and Emma scrunched her nose. “Between you, El and the Vankalds, I feel like I’m on the wrong end of all the secrets.”   
  
“More like late-breaking news.”   
  
“Enlighten me.”   
  
“Ariel texted Ruby about whatever Dylan is doing with Mattie and she’s super upset and she thinks you’re going to be pissed after the break because she’s not monitoring her nine-year-old enforcer on skates.”

“I’m not pissed,” Killian promised, ignoring Emma’s immediate scoff. “I’m not, Swan. I just…”  
  
“Killian Jones, defender of his kids.”   
  
“Exactly that.”   
  
“Ruby was mad enough for everyone involved anyway, even Mattie, and I think he was just upset that he couldn’t score twenty times a game when he was worried about getting hit.”   
  
“At this point I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he did score twenty goals a game,” Killian muttered. Maybe he’d had more than one glass of spiked eggnog. 

“It’s because he’s trying to be you.”

Twisting wasn’t easy when he was laying on his back — or when Emma’s fingers were in his hair, but he was nothing if not stubborn and there was another joke about magnets to be made. When his hand rested on her stomach again. 

Emma smiled at him. 

“Don’t talk to me about whatever sentiment that entails. I’m super pregnant and it’s Christmas and we’ve been given several thousand square feet of house.”  
  
“Super pregnant, huh?”   
  
Emma waved her hand, pointing at her stomach and Killian flipped over – head somehow finding its way onto he legs. She didn’t stop moving her fingers through his hair. “At least now we know where Peggy gets it,” she added softly, tapping her thumb on his temple. 

“Are you suggesting she’s inherited an innate desire to have her hair played with?”  
  
“Are you?”   
  
“Possibly,” Killian admitted, reaching up to tug Emma’s hand back down. He wrapped his fingers around hers, glancing up to make sure she was still smiling before pressing a kiss underneath her wedding ring. “What do you think, Swan?”   
  
“About?”   
  
“Several thousand feet of check’able living space.”   
  
“Overwhelmed, a little,” she admitted, “but not in the way you’re thinking.”   
  
“How am I thinking of it, exactly?”   
  
“You know Scarlet asked if, and I’m quoting here, Cap is doing that thing with his face because he’s mad about having to face Mary Margaret in the first round of the tournament.”   
  
“Jeez,” Killian groaned, hand moving towards her stomach out of instinct. He was met, immediately, with a kick. “Hey, kid,” he mumbled, smiling despite the nerves and the worry and there was a lot of square footage. Room for a whole Jones Line. 

“He’s been doing somersaults all night.”  
  
“You think that’s a sign?”   
  
“About being able to do somersaults in all the space of a downtown brownstone?” Emma laughed, and Killian’s eyes darted back up towards hers. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she didn’t look as worried about the ridiculous amount of family gifting they’d been on the receiving end that afternoon. “Kind of,” she said. “And you already said we.”   
  
“That’s true. You didn’t answer my question though.”   
  
“I’m not worried about some Vankald family overload or even what happens next Christmas when we inevitably have to order the Chinese food. I am…” 

She trailed off and the sigh was more of an exhale, eyes falling on the pile of pillows and the edge of the bed and it felt symmetrical to be back in that room — where it had started and sustained a desperate middle and watched Emma Swan tell Killian Jones she loved him for the very first time on Christmas Eve. 

“You are…” Killian prompted, grinning when Emma glared. 

“It’s not something I ever thought I could have,” she said quickly, stumbling over the words and refusing to meet his gaze and it was like he’d been pulled into the mattress or maybe through the floor and Killian sat up before his mind had processed the idea of moving. “A house and a hockey line and you...trying to make out all over the place.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, leaning forward and kissing her — again. His lips slanted over hers, one hand pressed into her hair as he tried to tug her towards him or touch every single inch of her and he could live for the rest of time without ever quite getting over how much he loved Emma Swan right back. 

On Christmas Eve, or any other day. 

“That’s because I;m super attracted to you,” Killian said, and it was the most honest string of words he’d come up with all day. “It’s a struggle not to make out with you all the time.”  
  
“Mattie would never forgive us.”   
  
“He’d cope.”   
  
“I love you a ridiculous amount you giant, vaguely attractive weirdo.”   
  
“Vaguely attractive? You wound me, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, well, I will admit that becoming a homeowner adds to your overall attractiveness.”

Kissing her again was the only reasonable response — brushing his lips across her face and down her neck and over her shoulder and she probably would have actually punched him if he tried to kiss her stomach, but he was on some other level of _overjoyed_ and Killian was willing to live on the edge, as it were. 

“El told me I deserve this,” Killian muttered, pressing the words against Emma’s t-shirt. “But at the risk of being a sentimental asshole, I think you do too, love.”  
  
“Team Jones,” Emma whispered, tugging on the collar of his t-shirt so he moved back up, falling asleep wrapped up together. 

Until several kids tried to check the door the next morning. 


End file.
